Science of Fear
by Not Poignant
Summary: Set late season 2. Nathan finally finds employment only to find out his boss was affected by the storm, and his immortality can't save him. Warnings: Rape. Eventual Simon/Nathan.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** Rape, and the general crudity of Nathan and overal grittiness of _Misfits_.

**Timeline:** Set a few months after they've finished their community service, but before the events of the Christmas episode. Marnie doesn't exist, Simon and Alisha are not together, though they do have some history. Simon is NOT aware of 'Future-Simon,' but lives in Future-Simon's pad after Alisha showed it to him (and cleaning a lot of it out) and telling him that Superhoodie lived there.

* * *

Nathan's boss can afford to be a dick, because no one wants to hire someone with a criminal record most of the time, and on top of that, no one wants to hire Nathan. Nathan calls it the employment double-whammy. He doesn't interview well. He lays on the charm for about five minutes and then he can't help it, a sentence slips out that turns everything south; 'so you get paid well here, right? That looks like an excellent tit job. I've often thought about plastic surgery myself, always wondered what I'd look like with some double Ds.' 'You get smoke breaks? What about wank breaks? It takes less time than the average cigarette, I promise! You get a relaxed and happy worker, and I get to _be_ a relaxed and happy worker. Win-win!' 'No offence, but you've got a real Fagin vibe going on about you. Take in the vulnerable, keep 'em vulnerable eh? I can work for that!'

The one with the Fagin vibe hired him, in the end. He'd seemed amused by the insults and the digs, and Nathan was frankly relieved to have a job, even while being horrified at the idea of working for a living. How _awful._ It wasn't going to be enough pay to buy him out of the community centre, but it would be enough for some new clothes, enough to make it look like he wasn't a homeless.

Nathan doesn't mind getting dirty at work. Cleaning out the industrial ovens, washing dishes, keeping shelves stocked and exterminating pests (except himself, of course) was all a walk in the park after community service. Sometimes Nathan caught himself scrubbing one of the pots with steel wool, headphones in his ear, whistling along to some tune, and he'd be caught by an pang of longing for his Mum. For one of her cooked meals. For the way she'd cuff him every time he playfully took the piss out of her dinners. The yearning always caught him unexpectedly. Like some kind of stomach flu. And then it passed and he'd be left thinking immortality wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

His boss, who actually went by the christian name of Bradley, ends up being stuck with the name Fagin. Nathan thinks anyone who can cook that good, who's stuck in this dump making pies for shitheads on work breaks is someone with a history. He wouldn't be wrong. But whatever that history is, Fagin seems to keep it out of the workplace, and he's remarkably adept at being completely nonplussed by everything that Nathan says. He's probably the only person who Nathan's ever met who doesn't get routinely pissed off simply by being in his presence. Nathan stepped it up for a few days thinking the man must have a breaking point, and then when he wasn't fired, beaten, yelled at, abused, or any of the other things he'd been expecting, he settled down.

They settled down into a routine. Nathan got paid less than minimum wage, he got himself some new clothes. He occupied that shitty place where he made enough to keep himself fed without theft, but not enough to get himself a place to live. So he stayed at the community centre, still drank their booze and raided their vending machines. Whatever extra money he ever had leftover, which wasn't much, he kept tucked away in a rucksack in one of the storage rooms.

* * *

He quickly learns that Fagin is actually a _really_ good cook. He learns it when he steals a pie and realises he hasn't had something this good possibly ever. It's all lean chicken breast and grilled capsicum and warm, flaky pastry that has been turned and made just that morning by a tender hand.

He'd been affectionately calling the cafe the 'chew 'n' spew,' but he knew something awesome when he tasted it. He stole some more over the next few days, and then the next few weeks, and he was sure Fagin knew about it, but the guy seemed to indulge his petty thievery and Nathan could've sworn that the manager deliberately left the countertop to go do something meaningless out the back, just so Nathan could take something else.

Nathan liked that it was like a rapport between the two of them. Nathan had the money to afford the food, and Fagin had many reasons to fire Nathan, but for some reason Nathan never paid and Fagin never said no. He also never outright offered the food to Nathan, just made himself scarce on a regular basis and never commented on the missing food.

After two weeks, they have a pretty solid rapport. Fagin doesn't trust Nathan alone with an open cash register, which Nathan respects. Nathan is starting to think Fagin's just an all round good guy, even if he does have a rocky past. This he is now utterly certain of, because no one who cooks that good ends up in a shithole like this, with chipped laminate and yellowing tiles, plastic tables and chairs, fluorescent overhead lights. Nathan knows he's not in a position to judge, he's got his own criminal record to contend with.

* * *

Fagin likes tall, boyish customers. He fusses over them and brings them extra food and has a leery grin that Nathan's pretty sure he's flashed at chicks a few times. And sometimes Fagin gives them his phone number and he'll shut up the cafe early and leave the store. Nathan never sees the kids visit the cafe again, and he never asks about it. Maybe the guy's a terrible shag, maybe it's something else entirely. Nathan has almost no sense of self-preservation, and he's liking this ability to buy new things, eat good food; and he wants to keep his job for a month at least.

Sometimes, he watches his manager bring the kids an extra milkshake, a huge bowl of hot chips with extra curry, and he feels something twinge inside of him. He's learnt to mostly ignore those twinges over the years, but he still knows how to interpret them. It's loneliness. It's his 'I want a father' twinge.

He forces himself to turn away, and he does his job in his half-assed way. He's not going to go above and beyond the call of duty to try and impress a guy that he still hardly knows, even though he wants to. He knows how it always ends. Anyone ever approaching a role model leaves. Anyone he cares about doesn't return the favour for too long. Nathan's his own father figure. That's all that matters.

Still, he can't help but watch furtively when the cute ones come in.

One day, Fagin catches him watching and his eyes narrow. And Nathan, lost for a quick comeback for once in his life, disappears quickly into the back room and then leaves for a smoke and a walk around the block.

That night, as they're closing up, Fagin hands him a beer and watches Nathan drinking it. Nathan knows he's being objectified, he knows he's pretty, he's now even sure that this might be the reason that Fagin hired him; criminal record and all. But Nathan can't bring himself to care, even though he'd never go for the guy in a million years, he likes the attention.

What can he say? He _loves_ attention.

* * *

'What the fuck is that? It smells like cat piss and asparagus.'

Nathan leaned over Fagin's container with its orangey-pink sauce and rice and wrinkles his whole face at it. The manager looks up from his lunch, stops leaning on the counter and pushes the container and the fork towards Nathan. He raises an eyebrow.

'I'm surprised you've got enough culture to know what asparagus is. Give it a try, then.'

Nathan stares at the meal with deep scepticism. It looks ridiculously healthy, and smells sour and different to anything he's ever had before. But before he knows what he's doing, he's taking the fork and trying it, maybe to please Fagin, maybe because he's actually got some confidence in his manager's culinary skills.

He chews, swallows, laughs in delight.

'Well, fuck me sideways. I guess I'm a whore for cat piss and asparagus!'

Fagin laughed, took the container back after Nathan had another forkful, and kept eating. Nathan watched him, pursed his lips.

'No offence mate, but what are you doing working here? You're too good for this shithole. Let me guess, criminal record? Long string of bodies behind you?'

'You got part of it right.' Fagin said, his expression didn't even change. He shrugged down at his meal as he took big mouthfuls of the sweet and sour chicken with steamed basmati rice. 'Making the best of what I've got leftover, basically.'

'I know what you mean. I was just sure I was destined for a life of fame and fortune and pussy before, y'know...' he trailed off. His mind helpfully supplied him with an end for the sentence; _before, y'know, becoming a homeless._ Before being kicked out of home in favour of some jack russell cockhead, and not having his own bedroom to wank in at his convenience and someone to cook him meals at the end of the day. Before being reminded that he's just too much trouble for his own good. He couldn't really blame his Mum, she stuck it out for as long as she could, and she still loved him.

He was just too much for anyone, really.

'You've never talked much about your record.' Fagin supplied, after some time passed. He pushed the food back towards Nathan, indicating he was done.

'Oh, a long string of bodies behind me, just like you! Actually, I was done for eating some Pick 'N' Mix! Can you believe it?' He takes the offered container and finishes the small amount of food left behind. He licks the fork salaciously, wiggling his eyebrows at Fagin as he does it. But it's intended as a joke, and instead of being weird, they both laugh.

* * *

'Why're you flirting with your manager, mate? Do you want to get fired?' Kelly said, shaking her head at Nathan, over drinks at the pub where Alisha and Curtis still worked. Curtis was behind the counter, Alisha had ducked out for a bit, and Simon was sitting with them both, typing something into his laptop. He'd picked up part-time work at a spy-gear store, and spent a lot of time looking for, and ordering cutting edge stock whenever he could.

Nathan was a little jealous of Simon getting this awesome, open-plan pad that was – ultimately – paid for by some mysterious masked shithead who liked the quiet one better than him. Of course. But he couldn't take it out on Simon too much (not more than once every two days, anyway), because Simon was sort of loyal, and because Simon had offered him good advice on occasion.

'He's not gonna fire me! Believe me when I say he can take it. I dunno, maybe he was like me when he was a little tike. He's not like you lot, he doesn't hit me or stare at me blankly when I land my marks. He appreciates my wit and my humour.'

'Sod off.' Kelly said, but she shook her head at him in that good-natured way of hers, and went up to get another beer.

'You should find out what his criminal record is for.' Simon said, looking up from his laptop, 'It could be serious.'

'Uh, newsflash, I'm _immortal_.' Nathan said, spreading his arms and hands in what he thought was a show of his awesomeness.

'Still...I mean you indicated he targeted the younger kids in his cafe...'

'I didn't say he _targeted_ them. And they're not kids, they're just young. You know, like our age. Why does everything always have to be pedophilia with you, anyway?'

'It doesn't!' Simon said, indignant.

'Does too.' Nathan said.

'Does not.' Simon said, and then shook his head abruptly at himself. 'Anyway, my original point still stands, I think you should find out what his record was for. If not for your peace of mind, than at least for ours.'

'Well! Barry! I didn't know you cared!'

'Believe me, I try not to.' He said, but a corner of his lip quirked, and Nathan looked at Simon triumphantly as he finished his beer in one go. He knew the look would piss Simon off, but beneath it was that warm glow he felt at the idea of Simon caring about him.

* * *

Two weeks pass, and Nathan doesn't even try and find out what Fagin's criminal record is, until the man invites Nathan over for dinner. If it had happened only two weeks ago, Nathan would've said no, too soon, I don't put out on the first date; but Nathan actually thinks he can trust this man. And anyway, he's immortal, so he's not too worried. But when he gets to Fagin's house and sees that it's actually a very nice place, he's shocked into feeling uncomfortable and he can't say why. It's just so dissonant, he can't help but wonder what sort of fall from grace his manager experienced.

The house smells like garlic and roast chicken, carrots, sweet potato, capsicum. It reminds Nathan of Christmas with his Mum and it makes his heart hurt, and he hides it by poking fun at the artwork on the walls. Fagin actually joins in with him, and soon they're trying to one-up each other on how far they can take it. When Nathan gets to; 'well I think it looks like three midgets trying to fuck a corn cob taken on low focus,' Fagin laughs so loud that Nathan actually feels himself flush. Like it's a compliment. Like he's in primary school again making the bullies laugh so they'll leave him alone, except better.

It's ridiculous, and he's laughing at himself when he laughs with Fagin. He just can't stop laughing at himself.

Nathan feels uneasy eating dinner like this, with an older man who he has now – at least once – imagined could be like a replacement father figure or something. It's not like he hasn't been looking for it, anyway. And uneasy because he knows Fagin is into him. It's not that he minds being the object of someone's attraction, he likes that very much. It's that it's been about two months now and every single one of the kids that comes into Fagin's bar, that Fagin goes off with later on, never comes back again. Not ever.

Fagin is plying him with beer and then, over a dense chocolate cake, he plies him with rum. Nathan starts to feel pleasantly buzzed, and it loosens his tongue even more.

'So, seriously, why've you got your criminal record? You a pedophile or something?'

Fagin looks pensive, and takes a sip of his beer. Nathan realises that Fagin's been giving him the impression that he's been drinking just as much as Nathan has, but he only seems to be on his second drink. Nathan would care, but the rum makes him feel all warm inside, he's had a good meal, he's feeling sleepy, and – as he can't stop reminding others – he's fucking immortal.

'Some guy decided to rat me out, yeah? I had a great life before that, as you can see,' he waved a hand at his home, 'but it didn't work out. I got done, did my time, and then couldn't get hired.'

'I feel that, my friend.' Nathan said, drinking to hide his discomfort. Was it his imagination, or had Fagin just sidestepped the question entirely?

'Since the storm though, things've changed even more for me.'

Nathan put his glass down.

'I've been hearing things about that,' he said evasively, 'weird things have been happening to people. So what've you got? Is it off the A-list of superpowers?'

Fagin laughed, shook his head, everything about him seemed easy and relaxed. But Nathan still felt off-centre. It occurred to him that this might be a trap. If he had any sense of self-preservation, he might just leave. Bad things tended to happen when he met other people who had gotten powers from the storm.

'I seem to be able to make people stay silent about the things I want them to stay silent about. It's not much, really. But it works.' Fagin said. His face smoothed into a serious expression, and he pinned Nathan with his gaze.

'That's not creepy at all, is it?' Nathan laughed, and then made a quick decision, 'I think that's my cue to leave, mate.'

Nathan stood up, and Fagin stood up with him. They were both facing each other over the table, and Nathan abruptly realised that Fagin was the one closest to the door.

'I guess you could say it's not really off the A-list, like say, flying or telekinesis or something. But it does the job for me.'

They're standing, squared off, facing each other. Nathan hears a voice inside of him yell, 'I'm immortal! This'll be fine!' But dying _hurts_ like a _bitch_ and he doesn't want to give Simon the satisfaction of being right. That kid is too paranoid as it is. And then he's wondering what Simon is doing, right now, in this moment. What they're all doing; Kelly, Curtis, Alisha. And here he is, getting himself into trouble like always.

'I got done,' Fagin said, sliding the cake knife out of the cake, 'for allegedly raping some kid. You know. I say allegedly because they all want it.'

'Of course they do, you fucking mental.' Nathan said.

Fagin made the first move, lunged for him sideways, and Nathan ran around the opposite side of the table, straight for the door. He got his hand on the handle and then felt arms around his waist, felt the thunk of his skull as it cracked against the hardwood. Pain arced across the inside of his head and he gagged on it, and blood spilled down the side of his face. But even as he was dazed and frozen somewhere deep down, he turned and struggled. He landed two punches before he had both of his arms twisted up behind his back and pain scissored up and down his spine. He gagged again. He must've hit his head really hard.

He wasn't lucky enough to black out when he felt a hand open the fly on his jeans. And Fagin didn't even pause when Nathan threw up from the pulsing pain in his head, the pulsing pain _everywhere_. The house still smelled of roast and chocolate cake, and now vomit and something bitter and bloody in the back of Nathan's throat. Bile and hate, because he was so, so fucking stupid.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Feedback is love. Apologies for all the angst, it just tends to find me no matter where I am. *grin*

* * *

He wakes up on someone's lawn. His face his sticky and his whole body hurts. Jokes about how he was given a good working over, about how one shouldn't drop the soap in a prison shower, all start flickering through his head and at first he smirks and then he gags and has to rest his head on the dew for some time, collecting his thoughts. It's very dark. No one else is around. Its fucking freezing.

He goes to Curtis first. He doesn't know why he chooses Curtis. He's got the most hit and miss power out of all of them. But Nathan doesn't care, he has to try. And Curtis is the only who can actually erase events and make it like they never happened. This – Nathan thinks – is probably a best case scenario.

So he goes to him at the bar. He's cleaned himself up a bit, but blood is still oozing slowly and thickly into his hair and the split in his head throbs and probably needs stitches. He's wearing one of the new shirts that he got for himself thanks to the wage he made working for Fagin. He would prefer anything else right now. He'd even prefer his skanky, disgusting, community service overalls. But he didn't have them available, and the button down shirt was the easiest thing he had to put on, because he didn't have to pull it over the sharp strangeness pulsing in his head.

'You know it doesn't work that way.' Curtis paused, eyes narrowed. 'What happened to you, anyway?'

Nathan opens his mouth to say something, but a strange, cold sensation slinks down the back of his spine and he suddenly can't find the words. He can't even _hint_ at it. And while he's trying to find the right words while fighting off the feeling of cold slime slinking through him, he suddenly remembers Fagin's power. The stupid, fucked up power he got from the storm.

Nathan remembers that Fagin had the power to stop him from talking, but he didn't know it would be this effective. He searches for every phrase possible, but anything that even connects to the events of that night seem cordoned off. He can think about it, he can remember it, but he can't get it across to Curtis.

'Jesus.' Is all Nathan manages to say, after about ten seconds pass. 'Well, isn't this a bucket of piss?'

'I can't turn back time if I don't even know what it's for, that's like...impossible.'

'That's fantastic, isn't it?' Nathan says. He shoves his hands into his jeans and the denim rubs over bruises and he winces. His whole gut aches and he's mostly forcing himself to stand up through sheer force of will. It's not the first time he's been abused before, but it's the first time he's been raped. It's the first time it's hurt like _this_.

'It probably wouldn't of worked anyway. I kind of need to be there. Sorry.' Curtis says, making a face more at himself than anyone else.

'Whatever, man. I get it.' Nathan says, and leaves.

He's a few steps away from the pub when he hears footsteps behind him. He turns quickly, probably too quickly, and stares dizzied as Simon runs up to him.

'What's wrong?' Simon asks, mouth grim.

'Nothing!' Nathan laughs, even though the motion hurts his ribs, his gut.

'Something's wrong.'

'You are, without a doubt, hands down, the most paranoid freak I've ever met.'

Simon studies him, and then his eyes widen. He reaches up for the gash on Nathan's head, and Nathan steps back.

'Hands off the merchandise, my friend!'

'You're bleeding! Tell me what happened.'

Nathan opens his mouth to brush Simon off, and then closes it. Even before he realises that he wants to tell Simon about what happened, the cold, slinking feeling crawls up the back of his spine and presses like wet, cold mucus into his lungs and his throat. He chokes on it. He turns away from Simon, forces himself to take deep breaths, to swallow repeatedly until he's got it under control. He makes himself think of anything other than what happened that night.

But everything is making him think about it.

'Did someone do this to you?'

_Yes._ Nathan thinks. Yes. Someone did this to me. I did it to myself. I'm an idiot.

He flinches when Simon steps closer to him. He can't help but wince when Simon hovers a hand by the gash. And then Simon actually puts his fingers on Nathan's face and tilts his head to take a closer look. He hears the intake of breath; the hiss. Nathan closes his eyes. It's just too much to deal with.

'You should get that stitched.'

'It's worse than it looks.'

'I don't think it is.' Simon said, implacable. In that firm, unrelenting way he had of making a point. It pissed Nathan off at the best of times, but right now it was just the crappy icing on the very crappy cake the night had been. He pushes Simon back with his hand, but doesn't realise how hard he pushed until Simon stumbles backwards a couple of steps.

'I don't need you to coddle me, man.'

And just like that, Nathan decides that he doesn't want to tell any of them. He doesn't want to see the way they'll look at him once they know. And all of his abuse jokes won't be funny anymore. He's not interested in their pity or their faux sympathy. He's more than capable of finding himself food and booze without working. It'll be fine.

'I'll see you later.' He says to Simon, who stands that looking at him with a kind of horror. He forces himself to turn and walk away.

He makes it back to the community centre without incident, though he has the suspicious feeling that he's being watched. He keeps telling himself that it's invisible Simon, making sure that he'll get home okay. He tells himself that he doesn't really mind this, it'd probably be one of the few times where he really wouldn't mind it. His head is pounding and nausea turns his stomach every few seconds. He's bleeding from his arse and his head and from scratches on his back and maybe even bite marks.

He's about to slide up the security grille when he hears footsteps. He turns, genuinely expects it to be Simon, but it's not. It's Fagin again.

'Are you serious?' Nathan hears himself say.

'I just really like you. That a problem?' Fagin purrs, looking easy and good-natured and not like the demented asshole he actually is.

'I'm still...' Nathan goes to say, _I'm still bleeding_, but he can't. Cold feeling, nausea, and he turns and throws up bile onto the pavement. He can't even tell Fagin about it.

'Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me,' Nathan gasps at no one in particular, when he feels a hand pull his hair hard, before throwing him down to the concrete. It's pulled on the wound on his scalp and it starts bleeding freshly again. Nathan hears himself whimper. It's a hopeless, helpless noise. He stands up, tries to get some distance from that level of pathetic. He's not there yet, is he?

'Look, man, I'm having a really bad night.' Nathan says right before he's punched in the kidney. He goes down and stays down this time.

* * *

It takes him days to recover, though he suspects it would've taken anyone else longer. His body seems to regenerate pretty quickly, all things being equal. But he still has broken bones, and – he thinks – maybe even internal injuries. He screens calls from Simon, from Kelly, even from Curtis. He avoids the community centre for a few days, and when he feels well enough, he finds a homeless shelter and uses their shower. He sleeps in public toilets, one night in a park, one night in a vacant house. He knows he could go home, use his old shower, but he doesn't want the bother of dealing with all of that right now. Family. Friends. The stuff that doesn't stop him from getting hurt or raped or abused or dying. The kind of stuff that always seems so great in theory and hasn't done shit for him in practice.

He beams at his pallid reflection in the mirror. The last night in the vacant house had been the best; he'd stayed in a bed, had a warm shower, even managed to wash the clothes off his back and spent several hours walking around the house in a very womanly, violet robe that fit him perfectly.

'You glorious, cynical bastard,' he says to himself. He's gotten dried blood out of his hair and his ear, the bruises are fading, and he looks more and more like his old self. Never mind that he's scared of going back to the pub, and scared of going back to the community centre, and certainly scared of frequenting any of the streets that Fagin's seen him walk down.

Immortality only takes you so far. Previously he'd thought being beaten to death was probably the worst thing he'd experienced. But at least that had finished relatively quickly, all things considered.

'And now, time for plan B.' He says. Flashes a wink, a quick smile, and then leaves the vacant house and hopes, even prays, that he can make it to his destination.

* * *

There's now a recycled armchair in Simon's industrial-looking apartment, and Nathan is occupying it while Simon fills the kettle. He looks up at the fluorescent lights, down at the huge bed, at the unfinished walls and the unfinished floors and thinks that Simon seems out of place here. It's a strange thing to think, because he has no idea what sort of space Simon would look comfortable in. Whatever it is, he can't actually imagine it.

Simon comes back with some tea, and sits opposite him on the floor.

'Why do you want to stay here?' He says.

'It's just such a nice place and all, imagine bringing chicks back to a place like this! You're totally wasted on that bed, I can tell. I'll improve it for you. It'll be like living art; naked me, naked girls, and you'd get it all for free! You'd be _living in porn!_'

'I'm serious.' He says.

So am I! Nathan thinks, but he doesn't say it. Serious answer. Okay, but he can't give the serious answer he wants to give. He's pushed around the boundaries of what he can say and can't say, and what he's learnt is that he can't write about it, he can't text it, he can't say anything about it, and he's trapped in this other guy's power to the point that the more he thinks about doing these things, the more his gag reflex gets a work out. It's one thing not to be able to talk about something, it's another thing to feel like orally ejecting your stomach in the process.

'I can't say why.' Nathan says, and even this dancing around the topic makes him feel queasy.

'Somebody hurt you, didn't they?'

And this is how Nathan learns that he can't answer other people's questions about it either. He turns and gags on being so close to the subject. He hears Simon calling his name in alarm, and when his vision clears and the cold feeling recedes like a tide, he's shivering and wishing he had a blanket or something.

'I really can't say. I mean _really_.' Nathan manages.

Simon now looks very concerned. He's gone from regular-Simon-concerned, to ultra-concerned. He's kneeling and leaning towards Nathan, like maybe he'd reached a hand out when Nathan had been gagging. His face is deadly serious and Nathan doesn't even want to go through the motions of talking about it.

'We can help you. You don't have to protect them.' Simon says.

Nathan laughs at this, though it's closer to the truth to say that he cackles, bitterly. He stands up and moves away from Simon and the armchair and the illusion of comfort.

'Look, Barry, you don't fucking get it, and I can't explain it to you. Are you gonna let me stay here or what? I can take the floor. I haven't slept in an actual bed – aside from last night – in a while. But if you want me to stay in your bed, I promise I'll make it good for you.' He leers, and Simon shakes his head, he seems confused, upset, tired.

'Just drink your tea, and I'll find you some blankets.' He says, and walks off to do just that.

* * *

That's when Nathan finds out that he's been having nightmares loud enough to wake up other people. The first night, it feels like he's only just put his head on a new, soft pillow when he's being shaken awake and is flailing out with hands and legs. He lands something, because there's an 'unf!' next to him, and then the hands are off his shoulders. It gives him time to kick off the blankets as well. Call him mental, but he just doesn't like the feel of heavy blankets as much as he used to, anymore.

'You were having a bad dream.' Simon says.

'Maybe that's what I sound like when I come,' Nathan says, flippant, smoothing a hand over his hair and avoiding the place where his scalp had split open. It had healed over already, but he didn't like to remember that it had happened at all.

'I'm not stupid. Is it going to be like this every night?'

'Jesus, you're worse than my Mum, if it's going to be like this I'm just going to find somewhere else to crash,' and he gets up, frustrated with Simon for waking him up like that and scaring him, and angry at himself for ballsing up the one place where he might actually feel comfortable sleeping. He yanks his clothes up into one hand, gets up, and walks towards the elevator.

'Nathan.' Simon says, 'what are you doing?'

'What does it look like?' Nathan is sliding back the grill so he can step into the elevator.

'I'd prefer it if you stayed.'

And just like that, Nathan deflates. It's like all the wind goes out of him. He leans against one of the pillars surrounding the elevator. He is unbelievably tired. He can't remember what he was dreaming about, but he can guess. He knows from experience that memories of abuse fade, they become part of the patina of who he is after a while. He's like a cobblestone pathway with years of newspapers and cum and piss and shit waxed into the stones. He still gleams in the right light, but if you look closer, it's all just muck and grime. But right now it's not yet a layer of who he is, it's fresh, and he can't even joke about it.

He turns to face Simon, who stares at him with a grim, dark expression on his face. It would be threatening if it wasn't for the fact that it was _Simon_.

'I know someone hurt you, now.' Is all he says.

Nathan shivers. He has no idea what he says in his sleep, he could have been fighting off green gremlins for all he knew. He's pretty sure that Fagin's power would extend into his sleep, but then...maybe not? He has no idea how the brain works. He's too afraid to ask what he was saying, so he just shrugs nonchalantly.

'I think I know who it is.' Simon adds, after more time has passed. Simon's expression is flat out scary now. It's so intense that Nathan looks away and stares instead at Simon's bed. After a moment he looks up at a flaw in the concrete of the wall and leaves his eyes there.

'Well, this night has taken an unexpected, weird turn,' he manages, quietly. 'I should go. I can't promise I'm not gonna have another nightmare. And you're being way freakier than usual, soooo-'

'You're not going anywhere.' Simon says, firmly and like he won't listen to anything that Nathan has to say about it.

'Why do you care so much, all of a sudden?' Nathan feels cornered, even though he's so close to the elevator and to _leaving_. He steps into the elevator and stares defiantly at Simon. The kid looks at him in exasperation.

'If you're going to leave, you're going to hear my theory first. I think, based on what I've figured out and the contents of your dream, that you were raped by your boss. I think that's what he's been doing to those kids who don't come back, and I think that's what he did to you. And none of you have told anyone about it, because if just one of you had, he'd be back in jail because of his previous criminal record. I think...he was affected by the storm, wasn't he?'

Nathan's feeling increasingly sick. Some of it is that cold, queasy feeling of being so close to the topic in the presence of another person. Some of it is that Simon is really too fucking smart for his own good, and hearing the events related with a kind of cold passion feels a little like knives stabbing into his chest. He's still staring on the flaw in the concrete on the wall, and he can feel his breath getting shakier. He's going to puke. He knows he is. His face is getting colder. It's not like the apartment is particularly warm in the first place.

'When you say you can't talk about it, you really can't? You can't give me _any_ indication that I'm right?' That's a question, like Simon has put the last piece of the puzzle together.

Nathan can't say anything. He is breathing long, shallow breaths, trying to shut down the clammy feeling on the back of his neck, the cool squeeze of his stomach. His fingers stray up and scratch at the back of his head. He's nervous and fidgety, suddenly wishing he was out at the clubs getting wasted, looking to get laid. He's in the wrong place, at the wrong time. He feels like this might always be the case.

'Nathan.' Simon says, drawing his attention back. 'Tell me I'm wrong.'

Nathan looks back at Simon now, and his face has changed, it's gone from intense and dangerous to scared and vulnerable. So very much like the perpetual look he used to have on his face. Nathan is confronted by the idea that Simon might be frightened for him, on his behalf, and that's so discordant that he tries to force a leer to his face, an easy expression. But he can't, and it slides off immediately after.

'Shit.' He manages, and his voice is hoarse.

Simon gets out his phone.

'I'm calling Kelly. She might be able to use her power and help you. I won't do anything until it's confirmed. But I have to know, Nathan. Someone _hurt_ you.'

'Look, man, if we don't talk about something else in the next five seconds, I'm going to be puking my guts up for the rest of the night. And I don't think I've kept much down for at least a few days, yeah? I've always wondered what colour Alisha's nips are? Tell me about that.'

Simon takes a deep breath, opens his mouth and then closes it again.

'A-alright. Just let me call Kelly first.'

* * *

Kelly comes over first thing the next morning. Nathan's avoided sleeping again; it's not like he can die of sleep deprivation after all, but he's feeling wretched and like a dog pissed in his mouth as a result. She's worried, but not stupid, so after snapping at him for not answering her calls, she doesn't crowd him.

'Think about it. Think about what happened.' Simon directs him, without any preamble.

Nathan gives Simon a _look_, which hopefully says 'are you fucking shitting me?' and 'fuck you, cunt,' all in one go. But just like that, he can't help thinking about it. The dinner with the roast and the split across his head, the beatdown and spectacular finish outside the community centre; Fagin grunting the kinds of things into his ears that Nathan himself had said during consensual experiences. He didn't know if he'd ever say them again. Not for a while, anyway.

'Well?' Kelly said, hands on her hips.

'Are you thinking about it?' Simon asks, gentler now, watching his face the entire time.

'It's not going to work.' Nathan says, 'trust me, if it was going to work, I would've found a way by now.'

'Maybe it would help if you were closer to him.' Simon says to Kelly, and gestures to where he thinks she should stand. Nathan wants to make a quip about how he's a dominating bastard and he could get paid good money for that shit in certain circles, but he's desperately curious to know if there's _any_ way that he can communicate what happened.

Kelly stands closer, looking bored and worried at the same time. Clearly she also doesn't think this will work.

'I suppose you want me to...' Nathan chokes off a swallow as a swamp of frigid nausea rockets up through him. He was going to say, 'I suppose you want me to think about it again, you sadistic pervert,' but once more, talking around the subject makes him feel awful.

'Oh, what's _that_?' Kelly said, taking a step back. 'Ugh, it's like spiders crawling up my back or something.'

'What can you hear?'

'I can't hear anything, but I felt something really weird. Like stomach flu or something. But like it's a thought, I know it came from him.'

Nathan can't help it, this is the closest he's gotten to breaking through to anyone and he'll be damned if he's going to stop now. Instead of imagining the events, he makes himself imagine telling them about it, bringing it up. Immediately, he bends over and throws up, tastes bile and gum and toothpaste. Simon makes a sound of disgust, but a second later, Kelly does the same thing. She bends over and pukes on Simon's concrete floor.

Simon shouts Kelly's name, and she's taking steps back from Nathan, gasping.

'I'm not hearing it properly. It's like...photos and, I don't know. All scrappy and shit. I feel awful.'

'Try dealing with it 24/7, you pussy.' Nathan manages, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

'What'd you see?' Simon says and Kelly shakes her head.

'Come over here,' she says, and moves far away from where Nathan is, to the other side of the flat.

Nathan makes a face at them both and then gets up to finish throwing up in the toilet properly. He half expects one of them to come and check if he's okay, but neither of them do. He can hear them quietly talking at the opposite end of the flat, and he closes his eyes and rinses his mouth out at the tap, he doesn't want to know what they're saying. He doesn't want to know what Kelly saw.


	3. Chapter 3

Hope you're enjoying so far. :) Reviews are love.

* * *

When he emerges from the bathroom, Simon isn't there, and Kelly is putting bread in the toaster. She looks pale and shaken, and doesn't look up when she hears him approach.

'Where's Barry gone?'

'Out.' She says, without elaborating. Nathan comes right up to Simon's kitchen bench and leans his back against it, watches her. He doesn't know what she saw, because he can't remember exactly what he'd been thinking about, but he feels like they've shared something now. Something more intimate than his finger being inside of her, or their shared, mutual insults. Something more than friendship and rivalry.

'If you don't stop _looking_ at me, I'll smash your face in with this toaster, yeah?' She said, though it was less hostile and more uncomfortable. And a few seconds after that, she looked at him. Nathan had seen that hangdog look on her face before. The last time it had been so vivid, the gorilla-man had been shot to death. Fucking great, he thinks. The pity party has already started. He definitely isn't going to be able to make tasteless abuse jokes anymore. It's just going to be too _weird_ now.

He moves away from the bench without saying anything and instead finds his way over to Simon's bed and sprawls out on it. It smells of sweat and a subtle aftershave. He stays there and closes his eyes. His stomach feels hollowed out and empty. He's been losing weight because of all the throwing up he's been doing, and he's weak from it. It's very similar to how he felt after being in the coffin. Except his mouth had been a little more dry.

The toaster pops up the toast and he flinches. He hears Kelly making her way around the kitchen easily, spreading the toast with whatever Simon might have available, and taking out crockery. A minute later she's sitting on the bed next to him, slowly chewing on the crunchy bread.

'Want some?' She says to the back of his head.

'What've you put on it?' Nathan says, into the pillow.

'S'jam on one, marmite on the other.'

Nathan turns his face and looks up. He feels like he's convalescing from major surgery even though he hasn't been near a hospital for a long, long time. Maybe it's the leftover healing of the broken bones that has him feel – dare he admit it – fragile. He props himself up on one elbow and takes the piece with marmite on it and takes a small bite of the crust. It's dry and salty and still warm, and he doesn't trust himself to keep down more than that, so he puts it on the plate and folds back into the bed.

Kelly keeps crunching on toast beside him, doesn't ask him if he wants to eat any more.

He wonders why she's not talking about it, and then thinks maybe she _knows_. Maybe she knows now, that he really can't talk about it. And maybe she knows even more than that now. It's the impression she gave him when she was whispering furtively at the other end of the apartment. He turns to his side and looks up at her, tired and feeling like he hasn't slept well in a few days. And he hasn't.

'Simon's right worried.' She says, like they've been in the middle of a conversation all this time.

'But that's just the way he _is!_ In between all the sexual deviance.'

'Nah, this is different. He's not the only one either.' She adds, and leaves it hanging so that Nathan can put it together.

Great. Now _two_ people are really worried. One with a barely intelligible accent, and the other whose facial expressions basically cover the breadths of 'concerned,' 'more concerned,' and 'Barry!' He closes his eyes and tries not to think about it. People being worried about you sounds nice in theory, but in practice it leads to lectures. We're worried about your grades. We're worried about your attitude in Sunday school. We're worried about how you're lying about being abused (the times when he was and wasn't lying). We're worried about how you never seem to get anything right. Well, no one had actually said that, but in his weaker moments, Nathan allowed him to think it. It wasn't that he hated himself in a dramatic, morose way, because he found that tedious and a waste of time. It was more that he hated himself in a cavalier, upbeat manner. A; 'got nothing better to do, so why not?' As a result, he almost never felt depressed or any of those other things. But it did mean he'd prefer people not get worried about him at all.

'I know you're not sleeping.' Kelly says, and Nathan wonders how much time has passed. Maybe he'd dozed.

'Are you just not going to talk to me at all?' She says, and he can hear her keeping the exasperation out of her voice. He turns and faces her.

'Look, I didn't call you, Barry did. This is not my preferred way of dealing with things. So unless you want to 'shag it out' instead of 'talk it out...' He leaves the sentence open-ended. He even manages a smirk. Kelly doesn't buy it.

'Simon said you came over here by yourself. And he didn't ask you.'

Nathan squints at her logic. Is she implying that by coming here, he knew that other people would get involved? He can't work it out. He came here, because Simon is the one who has the most reasons to be a bitch to him, and is the least bitchy to him. It wasn't a well thought out plan. Now he's flirting with the idea of regretting it. Except he has nowhere else to go.

'Is this a no to my 'shag it out,' plan then?'

'Oh, give it a rest already, yeah? You were fucking _raped_, Nathan.'

'So are you saying I'm damaged goods? _Already?_ Give a fellow a chance!' He's finding the role now. The leeriness and the thrill of baiting someone. He even sits up and faces her, pretends to look all earnest and eager, when in actual fact the idea of having sex with anyone is really not appealing to him right now.

And then suddenly he's flinching and hiding his head with a sound that was more sharp exhale and less whimper. Kelly still has her arm outstretched, hand open, to cuff him affectionately like she always did. Nathan bites down hard on his cheek and tastes blood, because _dammit_. He lowers the arm protecting his head, stretches his neck a little so he doesn't feel so locked in.

'Sorry.' She says, shocked, and lowers her arm.

'Just leave me alone.' He says, and then shakes his head and shrugs. 'Also, sorry.'

'Looks like we're going to be dealing with this in the fucked up way we deal with everything else in our lives.'

'Awesome,' he manages, but he's already turning back to face the pillow and pretend like the past week and a half hasn't happened. 'No really, just _awesome_.'

* * *

Nathan wakes up kicking the bed covers off him. At some point someone covered him in a blanket. He wants to punch them in the face for it. The motions wake him up properly and he sits up. He's mostly just slept the day away, being too dazed for anything else. The apartment is dim, but there is a light coming from the bathroom and the shower is on. There is a bottle of water by his bed, and when he reaches down and goes to crack the seal on the cap, he finds that it's already been cracked for him so he doesn't have to strain his hands. That's when he realises that Barry must be home, because that's the kind of attentive thing he'd do. He drinks, thirsty, and holds some of the water in his mouth, because it's so raw and so dry.

He listens to Simon in the shower and wonders how much later it is. He wonders why Simon found it so hard to come and talk to him about it, and why he had to run away like that. Not that Nathan _could_ talk about it. Maybe Simon stayed away because he knew he couldn't talk about it. Nathan couldn't figure it out.

He's already dozing again when the water shuts off. Nathan's eyes bolt open when he hears footsteps walking towards him, which is ridiculous, because he _knows_ it's Simon. His heart is thundering and he's staring up at the ceiling. He's terrified and it's ridiculous.

'I just let you sleep. I figured it'd be good for you.' Simon says, quietly. He's towelling off his hair. He's wearing comfortable black pyjamas. Nathan's clothes are clean-ish, but they're the same ones he's worn since he got changed the second time after Fagin got to him. He's getting sick of them. He doesn't want to say anything. Simon's chest is too broad, and all the shirts he owns will just hang off him if he borrows one.

'Kelly said you kept down some toast, so I've gotten some more bread and spreads and stuff...just in case. I can make you some whenever you like.'

There's a beat and then he adds awkwardly;

'It's going to be okay.'

Nathan laughs at this, in the back of his throat. He lies down again, rests both hands behind his head and looks more relaxed than he feels. He would say something, but instead he's just dealing with the knowledge that he'd much rather be beaten to death, or stabbed, or poisoned, than what's actually happened. He also knows that, in the long-run, it's going to be okay. He's not an idiot. He's survived a lot of shit before and lived to make jokes about it. This is just another series of events to add to the pile. But it's pretty clear that Simon doesn't know this about him. Nathan doesn't feel like explaining his philosophy about life, so he leaves it. Besides, it's one of the rare occasions in his life where he is actually feeling more on the side of fragile than on the side of resilient. He knows if he just waits it out, he'll flip over to resilience and just dealing with it already; but the waiting part is pretty awful. Also, it makes him sleepy.

'I'm going to get some sleep.' Simon says, and then Nathan hears gentle footsteps wandering off to the small bed he's made for himself on the concrete floor.

''Night, Barry.' Nathan says, as Simon settles down and shuffles blankets around. There's a pause, and Nathan thinks Simon is going to say something, but instead he only sighs.

'Why did you leave?' Nathan hears himself asking, and winces at it. The sentence ran out of his mouth before he could even control it. Usually, this is what makes him so charming and hilarious. Now it just makes him sound like a loser. A desperate, needy loser. But then, that's what he is. He doesn't have to think too hard to remember how warm and happy he'd felt that someone else had cooked a roast for him – Fagin, no less. That someone had made him dessert and joked with him and plied him with beer. No one's ever put that much effort into wooing Nathan before, even if it did end the way it did. The thought twists his gut into hard knots, and he shifts around the pain.

'I had some things that I had to deal with.' Simon says, but there's a quaver to his voice which makes Nathan think that he really couldn't handle talking about it.

'Yeah. Right.' Nathan says, now sounding like a petulant, desperate, needy loser. _All of my favourite things_, he thinks.

The one question that's on his mind, that he can't force himself to say, is; 'what did Kelly see?' That's a sentence that won't involuntarily run out of his mouth. It pounds away at the inside of his head but it's locked in walls and bars and it won't get out. He wants to know, he doesn't want to know.

He falls asleep still unable to decide whether he wants to know or not.

* * *

The nightmare is worse than usual. It's like a multi-layered confection where he's having a nightmare, and then having a nightmare on top of that nightmare where Fagin is watching over him, waiting in the darkness to reach out and whispering things to him the whole time. So he's back at the Community Centre, on the concrete, miserable as hell and reliving every moment, and then this as well. Like Fagin is also watching his nightmare, delighting in the replay.

He wakes up too scared to scream. Throat too locked in to make any noise. His lungs are heaving for air and he's pushing at nothing there and it takes him too many seconds to realise he's awake. He's awake.

He opens his eyes, and Fagin's leaning over him. Leaning over him in Simon's apartment.

'What that _fuck?_' Nathan shrieks, and scrambles backwards across the mattress. Falls with a thump on the other side of the bed. Fagin disappears from view and Nathan blinks and blinks to clear his eyesight. He's delusional. He's hallucinating. His mind has created a new way to torment him about this. But it will be okay, he tells himself. It has to be okay. He listens to himself shudder-breathing, and then realises there are tears leaking out of his eyes and he smears them away so he can pretend that never happened.

'Oh, I like this.' Fagin says from the other side of the bed. Nathan's heart stops, and then starts pounding even harder. It's a torment of pressure inside of him, threatening to tear open his chest. It's like the nightmare that would never end. Maybe that's it. Maybe he's finally going mental for real this time, and he's going to spend the rest of his life in a looney-bin. He can feel sobs building. _Sobs._ It's ridiculous. He can't remember the last time he was this scared.

'I didn't even know you'd be here.' Fagin continues, like he's not a figment of the imagination. 'I followed the other prick home and here you were, all snuggled down and whimpering in your sleep. I like that _very_ much. I never had the patience to really lengthen most of my trysts out, you see. But this could be very convenient.'

Suddenly, his head pops over the sound of the bed and it's startlingly close to Nathan's.

'Boo!' Fagin says with glee.

'_Fuck!_' Nathan shouts, and scrambles backwards, standing, arms out, and his mind is tumbling over itself to make sense of it all.

'Nathan?' Simon is awake now, wide awake. Already standing and looking at him in confusion. 'Nathan, what's wrong?'

'He's not here, is he? Tell me the twat's not here. Am I seeing things? Oh shit I fucking am, I'm fucking _hallucinating_. This is the worst trip I've ever been on, I swear. I'll never do drugs again. I'll never do drugs again!'

Simon is looking around in that way that people do when a person is hallucinating. He's trying to see the person that he can't see, because Nathan's watched his eyes pass Fagin three times now. At first he looks confused, and then suddenly he claps a hand to his mouth.

'No.' He says, behind his fingers.

'What?' Nathan says, his voice shaking. Fagin is watching him hungrily, but he's not doing anything, just standing there, soaking it up. He's pretty sure if he hallucinated a Fagin, the man would be attacking him by now.

Simon hasn't said anything, and Nathan dares to look away from Fagin to quickly glance at Simon, who is looking pained and devastated all at once. His eyebrows are knitted together, he's digging his own fingers into his cheek.

'_What?_' Nathan shouts at him, losing it. Feeling all the coherence he'd managed to hold together start to unravel for every extra few seconds that Fagin is right there, staring at him.

'You can see him, can't you?' Simon says. And then without waiting for an answer, he turns and in an uncharacteristic display of violence; punches the wall in frustration. Nathan has never seen Simon like this.

And then, all at once, it all falls together. The look on Simon's face when he realised what was happening. How he'd left as soon as he'd gotten confirmation about it from Kelly. The long shower he'd taken when he'd come back, many hours later. The fact that Kelly had been so evasive when Nathan had asked her where he was. And now this. Of all things, this was what clinched it.

'You _killed_ him?'

Simon turns back and stares at Nathan, and then his eyes rove around his apartment like he could see Fagin if he just tried hard enough. He can't. He looks like he might be about to cry.

'He certainly did, the little prick!' Fagin pipes up. 'There I am, minding my own business, cleaning the pots and pans out the back - _your job_, I might add, before you flaked on me – and then I'm staring at my own body, done in by an invisible hand. That's a mighty nice power from the storm you got there, mate.'

Simon can't hear him, but Fagin doesn't seem to care. Nathan is shaking so hard that he actually has to step backwards until he's leaning sideways into the cold wall. He is utterly and completely losing it. He remembers Jamie, his brother, saying; 'I will haunt you for the rest of your life...' and Nathan hopes, horribly, that this can't be possible. This can't happen. He can't be haunted like this forever, can he? He can't even kill himself to get away from the possibility. _He can't die._ As he keeps gleefully crowing to everyone who knows; he's fucking immortal!

'Fuck no.' He says to no one in particular, and Fagin winks at him. Simon takes a huge breath.

'Nathan, I-I didn't realise. I didn't-'

'You, the one with all the plans and the mastermind of fucking everything, the one who figures everything out, _didn't remember that I see dead people?_ Oh, that's rich!' Nathan laughs, but falls flat and exhausted around him. He has no humour now. He's filling with something trapped and ruthless and bleak. He's not one for rage, he's a lover more than a fighter, but there's some things that even he can't take. He can hear himself breathing now. It sounds like a panic attack. It could even be an overdose if he'd taken any drugs; but he hasn't.

'Nathan,' Fagin says, sweetly, calmly, 'come here. I'll calm you down.'

This is the last straw. Nathan feels something snapping inside of him and he launches himself forwards. But instead of attacking Fagin – who he knows he _can't_ touch – he ends up pivoting sideways and grabbing Simon by the throat, slamming his head back into the wall.

'I come here for help and you do _this_ to me, you murderous fucking pervert?' His voice is high, and strained, and his fingers are digging into muscle and artery and all he can think is that Simon is actually as built as he looks. Maybe more. All wiry and strong. And then all he can think is how he wants to crush the hopeless fucking melon-fucker into tiny pieces. Simon's hands have come up, his fingers are clawing at Nathan's wrists, his cheeks and neck are flushing as the blood stops circulating.

'Go on!' Fagin eggs on from behind. 'Go on then! Kill the little fucker! Kill him like he killed me! He deserves it! I didn't do anything that they all didn't have coming to them. Go on, Nathan. Make me proud!'

And just like that, Nathan's hands release, though it hurts to unmould them from their position of 'strangling Simon to death.' He spins around, faces Fagin.

'Will you just _shut up!_'

Fagin smirks. Simon has sagged against the wall and his hands are at his own throat as though protecting it, he's gasping for air and his eyes are huge. Nathan feels responsible for all of it. For making such a big deal about it in the first place. For letting himself flirt with Fagin when he knew, he _knew_ it might not be a good idea. For thinking that he might catch a break if he allowed himself to stay with a friend. For being cursed with such a fucked up power in the first place. For being _Nathan._

Simon seems to realise that something terrible is going on with Nathan, because even while he's catching his breath, he reaches out.

'Nathan...' He starts, and finishes by coughing hoarsely. 'Nathan, we'll deal with...' more coughing.

'There's no dealing with this.' Nathan says, listening to his own incredulity, hearing how shattered he sounds. This might go down as being one of the most personally humiliating moments in his life, and that's _really_ saying something. '_You_ deal with it.'

And then he does the first thing that makes sense to him, real sense, since he's woken up. He bypasses the elevator, bolts to the emergency stairs, and runs down them faster than Fagin can follow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warnings:** Rape, and the general crudity of Nathan and overal grittiness of _Misfits_.

**Timeline:** Set a few months after they've finished their community service, but before the events of the Christmas episode. Marnie doesn't exist, Simon and Alisha are not together, though they do have some history. Simon is NOT aware of 'Future-Simon,' but lives in Future-Simon's pad after Alisha showed it to him (and cleaning a lot of it out) and telling him that Superhoodie lived there.

**Author's Note: **Apologies for the massive delay. Have been too busy dealing with my own mental demons to deal with Simon and Nathan's!

Reviews are so many kinds of love. And thank you all for reviewing / favouriting / story alerting and so on so far. It's SO appreciated!

* * *

Nathan is fast, but Simon is faster. But Nathan had a head start when he bolted from the apartment, and so it takes a little while for Simon to catch up with him. Nathan's turning down an alley, sprinting hard, when he hears the running footsteps from behind and prepares himself to be tackled down. Instead Simon runs past him, slows and then stops in front of him, turns and faces him. Nathan is too exhausted anyway. No food. Hardly any water. Probably shouldn't run on still healing bones. He bends double and supports himself with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He looks wildly around a few times, to make sure Fagin hasn't followed. He hasn't.

In the distance they hear a gang of people swearing violently at each other and the sound of shattering glass. Light pollution means they can hardly see the stars overhead. It reeks of old food and refuse. In the alley, the sound of their breathing reverberates off the walls.

'You..._killed_ him.' Nathan manages. 'I hope you realise that murdering people isn't the way to solve all of your problems. And it certainly hasn't solved any of mine!'

'No one could ever testify against him in a court.' Simon says, sounding a lot less out of breath. He delivers it quietly, though he doesn't seem too concerned about being overheard. 'And I double-checked first, I looked him up, his criminal record is serious. He would've killed someone else eventually; if-if he hasn't already. He had the perfect power to keep getting away with it.'

Nathan stretches up and leans against the damp wall. It's cold and in between catching his breath, he's starting to shake. He notices that Simon has a backpack with him, hanging off one shoulder. When did he have the time to get that? Was it already prepared? Always there? And where's Fagin? He's hopeful that Fagin can't just turn up without knowing where Nathan is first, because it seemed that when Jamie was with him, he had to follow him everywhere to know where he was. He wasn't just _there_. He's hopeful that this means he can outrun the man. He can't live with that ghost in his life. He just can't.

'I know I've made your life pretty miserable in the past, mate.' Nathan says. 'So okay, okay, I guess it's my turn to say fucking touché?'

'He would've kept doing that to you. You're the perfect target for someone like that. _You can't die._' Simon says, serious. But beneath that, he looks guilty too. In fact, he looks awful.

'What...' Nathan trails off and looks up at the sky for some inspiration, but he doesn't find any. 'What did Kelly see?'

'We should get out of the cold.'

'Where?' Nathan laughs, but something about the run and then bending double and now this jags at his ribs, and he clutches at them. 'Shit.' He adds.

'I thought a hotel. I thought if any one of us was ever in trouble, a hotel would be best. I've...I've planned for a few contingencies. This wasn't one of them but I still think a hotel-'

'What about Kelly's place?'

'She lives with her mother. And I know you wouldn't want to stay with Alisha or Curtis. Our parents both aren't an option. If you're worried about money you don't need to be. I've been...saving for a while.'

'You really do think of everything except 'hmm, Nathan can see dead people! If I kill this dick, it's likely to have major repercussions!' Fucking wanker.'

Nathan feels like he wants to hurt Simon again, but it comes and goes in a wave of exhaustion. The back of his shirt is damp and probably dirty. He wasn't wearing any shoes and now he's aware that his right foot hurts and maybe he stepped on some broken glass or something. He looks down. Simon isn't wearing any shoes either. Christ, they both must be freezing.

'You should be able to talk about it now.' Simon says. 'We should probably test and make sure. Did...did he hurt you?' Simon asks, even though they both know the answer.

Nathan opens his mouth to respond and the cold, slimy feeling doesn't come, but in its place is a kind of hopelessness, a kind of denial about it. He doesn't want to admit that it happened. He doesn't want it to be true. When he couldn't talk about it, all he wanted to do was tell people. And now, what if he _can_talk about it? He doesn't want anyone to know how he was asking for it. He can't be glorious and fucking fantastic if all people see when they look at him, is how he deserved it.

'Nathan?' Simon prompts. His teeth are starting to chatter now.

'Yeah.' Nathan answers the original question. His voice is pulled out from somewhere deep in his torso and isn't high or melodramatic or spectacular. It would be easy to miss if Simon wasn't watching him like a hawk.

Nathan thought he'd feel kind of happier again once he knew he could talk about it. Instead he feels completely indifferent. A total letdown.

And then it hits him. Simon killed someone. Simon killed someone to protect him. He swallows hard and runs his hand through his hair a few times. He doesn't understand this kid at all. Not even remotely. He knows people who, if they knew what Fagin had done to him, would probably have given the man a medal and told him 'good job, kind sir!' It's not like he ever thought – while it was happening – well, fuck me, never expected this! He acted like a twat all the time. He expected some level of retaliation. Maybe not _that_, but...something.

Why would Simon do something like that? He had the least reasons out of all of them to do something like that. Nathan puts it down to Simon's deeply entrenched sense of civic justice. Nothing else explains it.

He realises that Simon is saying something to him and looks up to realise that he's saying they should probably find a hotel. Yes, before his feet freeze off. Helplessly, he follows, limping around the object embedded in his heel and blindsided by this new information about Simon that his brain has provided him. And still, shaken, aware that the ghost of that prick is out there. Maybe still in Simon's apartment. Just waiting. Dead but not gone.

* * *

They almost don't get let in on account of the both of them not wearing any shoes. But Simon's money is good, and they end up getting one of the last rooms available. A room with a king-sized bed on one of the upper floors. Nathan is still scanning the environment for Fagin, which he can't seem to stop doing. Simon is still scanning Nathan, which he also can't seem to stop doing. Together, they look paranoid, drugged out of their minds, with dirty bare feet and Simon in black pyjamas which kind of make him look like a ninja.

Simon ends up sitting in an armchair by the bed, and Nathan ends up on top of the covers, digging a piece of metal out of his foot with his nails and using one of the provided hand-towels to mop up the blood. Simon offers to help him, but he's not interested. He's had enough 'help' to last him multiple lifetimes. When the bleeding finally stops, he pulls a doona over his feet to warm them up. He keeps thinking he should be making jokes about room service and hookers and hiring a midget to make it a night to remember, but none of it comes together properly and the punchlines aren't working in his head. So instead he waits to see what will happen next. He feels like he hasn't stopped for days, for weeks. Like he's on this wild rollercoaster and it's still going, even though he's sitting on a bed. Only a few weeks ago he was thinking about how awesome his job was, his boss was.

'He killed you.' Simon says, quietly. 'It's one of the things Kelly felt when she listened to you. I know that it happened twice. Once...when you came to the pub and wouldn't tell me where you got the cut on your head.' Nathan ignores the accusatory tone in his voice. 'And then again, at the community centre. And he killed you.'

'I don't remember that.' Nathan says, shrugging. 'I thought I was just knocked out.'

'He just left you there. And because he knew you'd survive it from the first time he did it, he would've just...' Simon trails off.

'Oh, I know.' Nathan says, with a half smile. 'He would've made every night a night to remember.' He spreads his arms in a flourish and then they drop to his sides.

'Kelly didn't say anymore. But I think there were things she wasn't telling me. Things she couldn't say. She didn't tell me you'd been raped. I figured that one out. I mean I'd already told you, but I knew for sure, after her reaction. It wasn't hard.'

'It wasn't?' Nathan frames it as a question, but it comes out deadened and toneless. He runs a hand through his hair again and it all feels greasy now; his hand, his hair, his scalp. He can still feel minute tremors in his bones, even though he's not cold anymore. He folds his arms around himself and wonders when it was that he felt able to show these things to Simon. This side of himself, even more fucked up than the other side.

'You never asked Curtis to turn back time for being beaten up before. You've never asked him to rewind you dying. Not even all that time you spent in a coffin. I knew it had to be worse than that. It wasn't hard.'

'Fuck you and your criminal mastermind. You know, it's freakish that you have that. All those times I joked about your deviance but it's true isn't it?' Nathan looks up, to see if his barbs have hit, but they haven't. Simon is watching him with a kind of sadness, and for some reason, this registers as pain for Nathan. That hurts. He looks away and bites the inside of his mouth. Because he's already chewed it to shreds, he starts to taste blood pretty quickly. He swallows some, but there's too much to feel comfortable and he leans over to take a tissue from the box by the small chest of drawers by the bed. He dabs it to his mouth and looks to see how much blood there is. There's a bit. He keeps dabbing. Simon makes a noise in his throat when he realises what Nathan is doing.

'Does it hurt?'

'Which part?' Nathan says, and it's almost amiable.

'It will be okay, Nathan. We'll deal with it.'

'Why do you have to say that Hallmark bullshit anyway?' Nathan clenches the tissue in his fist. 'Do you believe it? Because I don't. And I don't know that you do either when we're hiding out from a rapist _ghost_ in a fucking hotel, shoeless! If you're trying to convince yourself, fine, say it _silently_. But stop trying to convince me.' He feels brittle around the edges, frayed, like one hard tug and he'll come apart.

'I think you need to hear it too.' Simon says.

'Oh, you think you know what I need? You don't know shit, my friend.'

Simon's hand comes up and brushes his throat briefly, and Nathan squints, but can't see a bruise there. They'll develop though. There will be bruises. He wonders if now they're both remembering Nathan losing it back at Simon's apartment. He's seen a lot of scary things in his life. Now he can say that he's been one of them.

'What do you need, Nathan?' Simon asks, and Nathan glares at him.

'I need a shower.' He says, and gets off the bed, limps into the bathroom, and closes the door behind him.

* * *

The nightmares are getting to him. He won't lie. He knows what it is even as he knows that he needs to wake up, but he can't seem to drag himself out of it. He fell into an unfortunate habit of sleep-dreaming, or dream-waking, or whatever, when he was in the coffin. Especially towards the end. The battery had run out pretty quickly on the iPod, and after that he just let his mind wander and wander and wander around. Often it went to sex, the most obvious target. But sometimes it just went everywhere. He'd have extraordinarily vivid dreams of standing on a train, of looking for the right brand of condoms at the shops, even of using a can opener to open a tin of baked beans. And sometimes it got so real that he'd be awake, but it was like it was still happening. They did his head in. He'd mostly gotten out of the habit once he'd gotten out of the coffin, but every now and then he got trapped back in the dreams where he was awake, but dreaming.

When he finally woke up, he felt like he'd been underwater for hours. He sat up, gasping, hand at his chest and eyes wildly roving around the room. Half-convinced he was in a coffin. Half-convinced it was still a dream. Half-convinced Fagin was still on top of him.

It was dim, and most of the light came from the laptop Simon was hunched over while sitting in the same chair he'd occupied as Nathan had fallen asleep. Simon was not even looking at him, but reading something with intent. Nathan realised after a few moments that his eyes weren't moving, and that he wasn't reading at all. Just intently staring at the screen, waiting for Nathan to speak.

'That is like the worst fucking alarm clock. Jesus.' Nathan said, and Simon finally looked at him. 'You could've woken me up, man.'

'You hit me, last time.'

'I hardly think the two situations are comparable!' Nathan said, and then pursed his lips, because it was statements like that would really remind him how difficult everything had been. That was definitely not what he was aiming for.

'I-I threw a cushion at you. It seemed to help.'

'So now you're a murdering, perverted bastard who throws projectiles at the vulnerable? Lovely.'

Simon opened his mouth, shocked. It was clear he was scrambling some thoughts together to try and defend himself, and after a few seconds Nathan took pity on him and simply waved his hand to indicate that he didn't mean it. His heart was slowing down, and he grabbed the cushion Simon had thrown at him and stuffed it behind him so that sitting was more comfortable.

'Don't you ever sleep?' Nathan said, after a beat, bored already.

'Not really.' Simon said with a half-smirk, as he looked at something on his laptop and then typed on the keypad. 'I've never slept well.'

'Your problem, my friend, is that you take everything too seriously. Someone's mean to you, try and burn their house down. Someone's attacked, you resort to murder. I don't know about you, but you might want to start some _Life of Brian_shit. Always look on the bright side of life and all that.'

'Because it's doing so well for you.' Simon leant back in his chair and folded his arms.

'I'm starving.' Nathan changed the subject.

'Pizza should be here soon.'

'What?'

Simon smiled, in that slightly creepy way that suggested that – for the most part – he really did think of everything. After a beat though, a frown quickly replaced it, and he looked at Nathan with gravity. It made Nathan uncomfortable. What felt like a million jokes and sledges came to his mind and passed again. He needed to do _something_. So he did jazz hands, because he couldn't think of anything else to do.

'I was just so angry.' Simon said, as though the jazz hands were an invitation to speak. 'I thought that I'd gone over it properly in my mind. Thinking of how you were being treated, the way he took advantage of you...'

He trailed off when they both heard footsteps and then a knock on the door. Simon got up and paid for the pizzas, which to Nathan smelled like a cornucopia of heaven. There was one each, and Nathan tucked into his with gusto, feeling like the very marrow in his bones needed replacing. The conversation they'd been having, the topic they'd been talking about but not talking about, hung between them. It wasn't exactly awkward, but it left a space between them both. A space where Nathan didn't know what to think of Simon anymore.

They finished eating in the relative silence of Nathan chewing and swallowing loudly, and then burping an almost operatic tune. Simon made a face at him, and then grinned.

'Glad you liked it.'

'Liked it? I wanted to take it into a master bedroom and do dirty, despicable things to it. I almost wish I had more than one mouth, sometimes, to _really_appreciate food.'

'It would get confusing.'

'I'm the king of multi-tasking. I can wank, eat a sandwich and watch TV all at the same time. My talents are truly under-appreciated.' He spread his arms and gestured at himself to indicate his own awesomeness, and then just like that, with no preamble, it hit him and his arms fell to his side.

'Fuck. What are we going to do?'

'I need to go back to the apartment and pick up some things. Like shoes.'

Nathan nods like this makes perfect sense and then he feels queasy. It takes a while for his mind to catch up with the messages his body is sending him, and then he panics.

'You can't go back! Fagin will follow you here! Oh shit. We're fucked. We're truly fucked. I'm going to be on the lam with a fucking perverted criminal mastermind who throws projectiles and murders people for the rest of my life!' He pauses. 'Well technically for the rest of _your_life.'

'Or I could use my power so he can't see me.'

'Or...' Nathan scowls. 'Shut up.'

The corner of Simon's mouth pulls up in a half smile again, and he shakes his head at his laptop. Nathan thinks that in an alternative world, in another lifetime, Simon could have been handsome. He could have been charming. His taciturn ways could've made the ladies and the fellows fall over themselves for him. Nathan tried mysterious and charming once upon a time, too long ago, and it made him laugh at himself harder than anyone else laughed at him. He was a balls-on-the-table open book type.

'You need sleep.' Simon says at his screen, like he's Skyping with someone, but his eyes flicker up and he directs that seriousness at Nathan instead.

'I don't know about you, but I've had enough of the harrowing, crushing, mind-splitting nightmares for one night, cheers.'

'What are you dreaming about?' Simon puts his laptop aside, watches him attentively, and Nathan grins ear to ear.

'Now, now, Barry, you're already a criminal mastermind, it's best not to double-up on being my therapist as well.'

'I was trying to be your friend.'

'Look, I'm an advocate for talking about one's _feelings_. I do it all the time! So why don't you give me a little trust, and just leave it alone. Not everything should be talked about. I think you know that better than anyone.'

Simon lets a silence expand between them, and Nathan wants to open his mouth and fill it with endless stream of consciousness so that he doesn't have to _think_, but there's only a few things on his mind, and most of those things he doesn't want to talk about. He laughs under his breath. There was Fagin, trying his hardest to make sure Nathan couldn't talk to anyone. And there's Nathan, trying his hardest to make sure he wasn't going to talk to anyone. A nice little conspiracy.

'Fine.' Simon says, like he's angry, or hurt, which Nathan finds confusing. Simon stands up, closes his laptop completely and Nathan can't see a damned thing until Simon turns the overhead light on. It casts a warm, bright light over the room. Simon packs everything away into his backpack and then slings it over his shoulder. 'You stay here, I'm going back to my place. I'll be back in a few hours.'

'What if he sees you?' Nathan blurts. 'What if he can see you even if you're invisible?'

Simon pauses with his hand on the doorknob, and he turns back to face Nathan. He looks incredibly tired, and Nathan wonders if he's always looked that tired, or if this is just a new development.

'He won't be able to see me. And we've outrun him once. I'm pretty sure I can do it again.'

'Thanks. I feel _much_better.' Nathan says, laying the words heavy with sarcasm. Simon pretends to be oblivious to the tone.

'You're welcome.' He says gently, and closes the door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Authors note: **The delay this time is because I've been writing ahead. So I can now tell you that it's 11 chapters long, and I've completed the next two chapters after this. A thousand times huzzah!

* * *

Time passes. At first Nathan tries to sleep it off, and this is – barring the horrific nightmares – mostly successful. That gets him to 10.00am, and Simon still isn't back yet. Then he has an extremely long shower and washes his hair four times; rinse, lather and repeat. Rinse, lather and repeat. He's pretty sure his luxurious, verdant curls will never forgive him for this, but he's bored out of his mind and needs something to do. Then he finds a hotel soap by the sink. He unwraps it, wets the corner and begins to draw filthy images of depraved, glorious sex acts all across the hotel mirror. This is satisfying. But it's only satisfying for about fifteen minutes. He abandons the soap.

He decides to catch up on more sleep, and he enters a fitful, uncomfortable doze for a few hours. In and out of sleep. When he looks at the clock again, it's 4.00pm. He considers leaving the hotel, but he absolutely won't take the chance of Fagin seeing him by accident. He knows this is a tiny possibility, really, but it's amazing how fucking small the world seems when there's some perverted ghost rapist wandering around looking for you. It's a miracle the dead man hasn't turned up at the hotel yet. Nathan keeps thinking it will happen. He knows, probably, that this is paranoia. He doesn't care.

Boredom is waiting around for Simon to come back to the hotel. Eventually he looks in the bathroom cabinets, underneath the bed, he opens up every other drawer and cabinet he can find until he sees a small stash of miniature bottles of alcohol, that must have once resided in the minibar. Nathan squints at them, he can't believe what he's seeing. He takes them out one by one and decides there is enough there to well and truly get smashed. It occurs to him that a cabinet isn't a normal place for alcohol. It occurs to him that maybe Simon hid them while he was in the shower, or sleeping. That bastard can be a killjoy even when he's not around.

'Booooooooze,' he sings in a high falsetto, before jumping onto the bed and uncapping the vodka. 'Lovely, splendiferous, cute little bottles of booooooooooze.' He practices an operatic vibrato before downing the whole thing in one go.

Booze is a _great_ way to kill the time, waiting for Simon to come back.

* * *

Hours pass, and Nathan is trashed. At first it was great, and then it was spectacular, and then it was surreal and like living in a dream-world, and then he was sitting on the toilet seat in the bathroom, singing 'Danny Boy' in a dulcet warble, leaning his pounding head against the tiled wall and conducting himself with one finger.

When he hears the door open, and Simon's tentative voice calling his name, he opens his mouth to reply and then a flood of adrenaline races through him. It dumps all the way through his torso, and shoots like lightning through his arms and legs. In less than a few seconds he's tense as shit and paralysed. What if Fagin's there with him? What if he just floats through the wall right now? Nathan hears a small sound emerge from his throat and decides this is entirely not what he was going for when he decided to mix whiskey and sambuca to see what would happen.

'Nathan?'

'What if he's with you?' Nathan says on a sharp exhale. He's staring on the wall like any moment Fagin could just come through. He can hear his heart pounding. He's pretty sure it's reverberating around the tiled walls like some bad DJ's set.

The door opens a crack. Simon's head peeks in. He sees Nathan on the toilet and his eyes widen, and then he sees the empty bottles in the bathroom sink. Then he looks up at the crude sexual soap drawings on the mirror. He sighs.

'You found them.'

'You left me alone for a day! What did you expect me to do? You didn't leave your laptop or anything!' Indignance blots out terror and he stands up, sways and points his finger. 'Hiding the booze? I knew you were devious, but come on, that's like Bond villain shit!'

Simon sighs and withdraws from the bathroom and closes the door behind him. Nathan can hear him moving what sounds like a couple of bags around, and decides there's no time like the present to find out if Fagin has followed him home.

It's Nathan's turn to poke his head around a doorframe, and he scans the room avidly to see if the man's there. Everything's a little blurry, and when he turns his head quickly, everything becomes a lot blurry. He becomes aware of how fucked up his life is, as he waltzes into the main room and watches Simon pull out shoes, clothing, laptop, charger packs, and then stops watching and looks around the room again.

'I got Kelly to meet me.' Simon said. 'If he was there, he probably followed her home. She picked up her phone while she was at my apartment and pretended to talk to you, and then left. And I stuck around for a few hours and pretended I was back home for good before leaving again; which is why I was gone for so long. It's strange to be...'

He trails off and shakes his head, and then sits down in the armchair and passes a hand over his face. He looks – impossibly – even more tired than he did before.

'Strange to be what?'

'Trying to double-cross someone I can't even see. I didn't even believe in ghosts.'

'Are you telling me it's in my imagination?' Nathan says, the alcohol short-circuiting his ability to think critically; an ability that was always in short supply. 'That I can't see dead people?'

'No.' Simon says, eyebrows drawing together.

'Because if you're saying that, you can just leave, and I can go on my merry way and become some sort of wandering refugee or something. Hitchhiking my way across the world. Of course, hitchhiking across the English Channel will take some work, but I'm resourceful. I'll figure something out. Maybe I could whore my way across.'

'You're drunk.' He says, with a wry look. 'I didn't say it was your imagination. I wouldn't be doing all of this, if I thought it was in your imagination. It's not like I spend my life trying to think up new ways to indulge you.'

'Why not? It's my destiny! To be indulged by people.' Nathan blinks dreamily. 'That would be a truly great destiny. Who would I see about getting that?'

'Not me.' Simon says, and to Nathan it sounds short, even grumpy. He squints at the man, but he can barely see him through the alcohol haze.

'This is boring.' He says suddenly. 'I'm bored. I have better things to do with my time than sit in a hotel with you. Think of all the wanking I'm missing out on! Days and days of wanktitude!'

Simon ignores him, and then leans down and picks up his laptop. A moment later it's open in front of him and he's keying in the password like no one else is in the room.

'Pay attention to me!' Nathan says in a last-ditch effort to get something resembling company. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, he finds that he's in a strange mood, full of restless energy and tingling in all of his limbs. He stares at Simon waiting for him to reply. But just as he looks up and opens his mouth, Nathan has a brainwave.

'Of course! Wanking! How have I not yet passed the time wanking?' He's thrilled that he's come up with this. 'If you need me, I'll be in the bathroom, getting to know Mrs Palmer and her five daughters.' He waves his hand, waggles his fingers, and then withdraws into the bathroom and closes the door behind him without waiting for a response.

* * *

A while later, Nathan is ready to kill someone. He knows that the booze could have something to do with it, but he can't even get far enough to find out. After a few seconds in, every time, he starts thinking about what Fagin did to him and he can't wank, and he can't stop thinking about it. He regroups, tries again; same thing happens.

The first few times it's just frustrating, but every time after that, he becomes harrowed and bleak, and he becomes more desperate. He starts conjuring up the most filthy, come-inspiring fantasies he can think of, he gets hard, and then a minute later his body is convinced it's up against cold concrete or being wracked with pain. He stops after another attempt and digs his fingers into his other wrist, eyes closed, breathing deep. This is not who he is, he keeps telling himself. _I am not this fucking person. _After everything else he's experienced, this is not going to be the thing that breaks him.

He casts his mind back to the things in his childhood that would have broken another person, but were nothing more than personality dressing for him. The priest with wandering hands. The violently alcoholic maths teacher with the metal ruler that was used more for corporal punishment than it ever was for maths. The home with the Mum who loved him and the ever-rotating door of men who came to live with her, who either cared enough to try and buy their way into his heart with toys and confectionary, or didn't care at all. None of that broke him. None of that did _this_to him.

He has a crude understanding that the powers they all got are dependent on core personality traits. They've talked about it before. Simon's invisibility makes sense, Kelly's 'oh god do they think I'm a chav?' psychic ability makes sense, it all makes sense. And his invincibility is just that, invincibility. And yet here he is, digging his nails into his wrist and breaking through the skin, and he can't stop thinking about Fagin and how fucked up it all is. And after everything, he can't stop thinking about how he brought it on himself.

He knew something was wrong at the time, didn't he? His instincts waved multiple red flags at him. He knew he should never have gone over for that dinner. He was just so desperate. So desperate for someone to take him in.

'Jesus,' he drawls, slowly, shakily, as he unhooks his nails from his wrist. He hears an uncomfortable cough through the wall and realises Simon probably thinks he just blew his load or something.

He snorts a cynical laugh, and pulls up his trousers, stands up and braces himself against the wall as a wave of dizziness washes over him. And then he propels himself out of the bathroom. Simon looks up at him, an unreadable expression on his face which turns quickly to annoyance when Nathan yanks the laptop out of his hands and then drops it carelessly on the bedspread.

'What are you doing?' Simon asks, standing, frowning.

'It will probably please you to know, that I am unable to get myself off. For the first time in my entire life. I don't know about you, but I wasn't expecting the past...twenty minutes, thirty minutes; however long it's been to be as outstandingly unsuccessful as that.'

'You've been through something traumatising-' Simon begins, but Nathan cuts in, not wanting the platitudes.

'Trauma? Trauma? It's been fucking trauma my entire life. I've been beaten to death, buried alive, I fell off a building and felt a piece of wrought iron go through my bloody spine, the list of _trauma_ I've gone through is about as long as the list of Alisha's one night stands before she screwed herself over with her bullshit power. Don't give me that excuse, you don't know what you're talking about.'

He moves closer and closer to Simon during his speech, until they're less than a foot apart. He knows his breath smells strong enough to make other people tipsy, and he finds himself not caring. He wants to get in the kid's face more. He wants to shake him up.

'You want traumatising?' He hisses. 'I'll give you traumatising.'

He lurches forward and his lips mash hard against Simon's. Their teeth knock, and Nathan can taste spearmint and the bitterness of coffee. He stays there for longer than he intended, unable to orient himself, dangerously off-balance. Simon smells good. Like maybe he's had a shower and put on cologne or something.

It takes him a moment to realise that he could keep going, he could really keep going, and that's enough of a shock to set him trying to find enough of his limbs that he can step backwards.

As he takes the step, a strong hand wraps around the back of his neck and holds him in place, and the lips against his gentle and begin to move. Nathan's eyes fly open, but everything's so blurry now, he's got no idea what's going on. Simon's lips brush and then take Nathan's lips into their own with the same kind of studied, serious intent that Simon conducts everything with. The hand against his neck becomes fingers that begin to move up into his hair, and Nathan shivers in response.

Simon suddenly steps back, eyes wide, hand moving up to his lips and wiping them, and then looking at them like he's checking for blood.

'You're not ready for any of this.' Simon says, and Nathan's trying to figure out what that could possibly mean, what _any_ of it could possibly mean. He's stepped into the twilight zone. And in this world, Simon actually kisses him back and Nathan actually likes it.

'What?' Nathan says. It's the first word that comes to mind.

'You need to get some sleep. I need to get some sleep. Tomorrow we can start fresh and look at a way of dealing with how to get rid of your ghost.'

'He's not my anything.' Nathan says, blinking in confusion. What just happened? He thinks. Did that just happen? He tastes blood on the inside of his lip, and he realises he must have cut it when he crushed his lips to Simon's.

'I'm sorry.' Simon says, and Nathan thinks if he was sober, and if he was smarter, he'd be able to pick up on the subtext that was floating around in the room. Instead, he stumbles backwards and sits on the bed, narrowly missing the laptop. He picks it up gingerly and holds it out to Simon.

'Hope your _girlfriend's _okay.' He mumbles, as Simon takes it off him.

'It'll be fine.' Simon says, with a half-smile. He sits on the side of the bed as Nathan crawls, uncoordinated, under the sheets. He double-checks his laptop as though he's not sure it's fine at all, and then satisfied, puts it down on the floor by his feet. He looks down at the pattern on the bedspread, and then picks at it absently. Nathan watches him, wondering where all the words that were usually bubbling up in the back of his throat had gone.

'I'm sorry I left you for so long.' Simon says, contrite.

Nathan thinks about trying to say that it was fine, to shrug it off, when he'd said that he felt the opposite about it. And he thinks about trying to say, 'well don't do it again,' but he thinks that would sound...the opposite of what he is usually going for. And he thinks about asking if Simon is avoiding him because he'd seemed upset last night and Nathan still doesn't know why. He can't figure that out. He doesn't have the same insight into human motivation as Simon does. Eventually he says something else entirely.

'Why would you do something like that? Why would you...kiss me?' He says, wondering if Simon would know what he meant.

Simon looks up at him and Nathan feels like those eyes see too much, so he looks down at the spot of bedspread that Simon had been picking at.

'I would have thought it was obvious by now.' Simon says. 'We can talk about it later. You should really get some sleep.' And then he yawns hugely himself and he laughs under his breath. 'I definitely should get some sleep.'

'So that's the plan then?' Nathan says, feeling like it wasn't obvious at all.

'That's the plan.'


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: **Reviews are all kinds of love. :)

* * *

Nathan sleeps poorly, but they both expect it and it becomes a mutually accepted nightly upset. If he wakes up Simon in the process, Simon throws soft things at his head until he wakes up. And if Nathan is angry enough at the nightmares, he'll throw them all back again, as hard as he can. So the night is interspersed with the odd moment of soft, plush, projectile violence before they both settle down again to sleep.

At some point, the hangover kicks in, and it's not as bad as Nathan expects mostly because he's done booze and drugs so many times that it all just doesn't seem to have the same affect anymore in the morning. He feels fuzzy, and has a pounding headache, but throwing up isn't on his to do list. His mouth feels like a dog pissed in it, and he smacks his lips together a few times, wishing this would erase the taste of soured alcohol.

Simon is still asleep when he slides out of bed. He's slumped in the armchair, looking uncomfortable, but also like the kind of person who could sleep anywhere at all if they had to. His lips, which had been firm and almost unforgiving the night before, are smoothed into slack softness. He has one of the small throw cushions that Nathan ditched at him tucked into his lap, and he has an arm wrapped around it like one might hold a plush toy. In sleep, there is the faintest shadow of concern across his forehead, like he is worrying about the future in his dreams.

'You gotta stop planning all the time, Barry.' Nathan whispers, and doesn't wait to see if Simon will respond as he opens the rucksack that presumably has some clothes in it. He ends up pulling everything out onto the bedspread just to see what his options are. There are three separate, complete outfits. One is in a plastic bag with his name on it. He opens it and sees his own clothing, and realises that Simon wouldn't have had that at his apartment, so maybe Simon phoned ahead to ask Kelly to bring it. It seems like a sweet gesture, but he doesn't want to think about that too much, because for some reason he can't stop thinking about how he doesn't ever do the same thing in return. And this morning, it's actually bothering him. Instead he finds everything he needs, and showers, reminding himself not to sing anything because he doesn't want to wake Simon up.

The shower is refreshing. He starts to shampoo his hair and his fingers accidentally brush over the place where his head split open during the first night with Fagin. There's nothing there. No scar, nothing. But it's still enough to leave him shaking and still under the hot water for a few seconds. His breath shudders quietly out of him, and he can't even get it together enough to tell himself to get it together.

It's this that reminds him that he couldn't get off last night, and he squeezes his eyes shut and rests his hands on his knees for a moment. He knows that this whole experience has screwed him up more than anything else has so far. And it is unexpected simply because it's not his modus operandi. It's not what he does in response to shitty situations.

'Fuck me in the ear with a rusty spoon.' He says to no one in particular, and his voice is harsher, deeper, more exasperated than it's ever been.

He forces himself to straighten, to keep washing his hair, though his fingers resolutely refuse to touch the place where his head had been split again. When he's done, he gets out of the shower and looks at the soap sex acts on the mirror without a smile.

When he's dressed, he goes to see if Simon is awake yet, but he's not. He's in the same awkward position on the armchair, the same faint frown lines lingering on his forehead.

Nathan sits on the bed and watches him quietly. He knows many fun and rousing ways to get someone awake, but they all seem inappropriate. It strikes Nathan that he's never seen Simon sleep before, he's never had a reason to, it's not like they've ever been especially close. And then Nathan realises that maybe they had been, and he just didn't notice. Simon had kissed him, after all. On purpose. For reasons that Simon thought were obvious, apparently. In the past, Nathan would have just brazenly assumed that Simon, like most of the rest of the world, had a massive crush on him. But now he couldn't connect the two and believe them. He didn't know what to think.

His headache expands, and tiredness steals over him. He ends up rolling onto his side to fall asleep again, because for some reason, the shower was exhausting.

* * *

Simon wakes him up later, dressed and showered and saying that they had to meet Alisha and Curtis in a nearby cafe. Nathan protests and comments about how 'ghost-boy' could be anywhere. Nathan isn't exactly ignored, so much as gently and logically rebuffed each time he suggests another reason why they shouldn't leave. Eventually he runs out of reasons, and he's just left with a dread that is apparently completely irrational, and doesn't feel any less real. And Simon at this point runs a hand over his face and frowns. The one thing they don't do is talk about the kiss.

'We're doing this so we can get rid of him.' Simon says finally. 'They might have some ideas. I talked to Alisha on the phone yesterday, and she seemed to think she could help. They want to help.'

'Oh, Jesus, _Jesus_, they don't _know_ do they?' Nathan said. It hadn't even occurred to him that Simon would tell anyone.

'They know you have a stalker. Who killed you. Who is now dead, and following you. That's it.'

'That's plenty, believe me.' Nathan says, and refuses to admit that he's grateful that Simon didn't say anything more. It's important to him that no one else find out. No one else aside from Kelly and Simon, that is.

'I'm trying to help you.' Simon says, and raises his hands, indicating his helplessness. Nathan takes a deep breath, and then one last thought occurs to him.

'What if Kelly's talked to them? What if she's seen them? What if _he's_ somehow attached himself to them? What then? Can't you just talk to them without me?'

'I want you there. I don't want you here on your own again. I don't like how you get.'

'How do I get?' Nathan says, belligerent.

Simon takes a deep breath, and says nothing. The silence speaks volumes, and Nathan has the presence of mind to feel offended.

'Oh, really? Is that how we're going to play it? Fine then. If you want me to go to the stupid cafe, I'll go to the stupid cafe, and if Fagin's there, then I guess it will be on _you_then, won't it?'

He walks forward and exits the hotel room, and Simon follows him, sighing heavily.

* * *

Fagin isn't there, though Nathan can't stop looking around. Curtis cracks a joke about how Nathan's getting some kind of karmic payback for all of his bullshit, but as Simon and Nathan both don't seem to find that very funny, he backs down quickly. Alisha has a piece of paper in her hand and is excited. She's trying to look concerned rather than happy with what she's discovered, but it's not working very well.

'I thought about it this morning, yeah? I was trying to think of how to deal with this which didn't involve something fucking retarded, and then I realised we should do what my Mum does when we move into a new place. An exorcist! Or a medium. Or something. Anyway, I printed out a whole bunch.'

'I don't believe in that shit.' Nathan says, and then suddenly realises how stupid he sounds. He has a _ghost _following him around, clearly the time has come to start believing in exorcists.

'Neither do I,' Curtis says, with a wry smile, 'but I don't think it matters much anymore.'

'I've starred the ones that seemed alright. But you could probably call them all and check yourself. I mean, ghosts are obviously real, yeah? Who's to say that exorcists can't actually get rid of them then?'

'Yeah...yeah!' Nathan says, warming to the idea, and starting to imagine that the next few eons of his life might not be spent being stalked by a rapist ghost. 'Well done, Alisha!' He says, and she grins at him, finally letting the facade of concern drop away entirely.

'It _is_ a good idea.' Simon says, scanning the list, sounding disapproving. Nathan realises that Simon wishes he had thought of it first.

'Now, now, you can't get all the good ideas, or we'd all be made redundant in this little group of ours.' Nathan says, patting Simon enthusiastically on the shoulder. 'Who knew you had it in you?' Nathan says, turning back to Alisha. She cocks her head to the side, her eyes narrow.

'Are you implying that I'm stupid?'

'No! Well, I mean, no, of course not! Is that something I would do?'

'Uh, yeah.' Curtis says, with a small smile.

'It does sound like you.' Simon adds, and adds a smile to the mix. Nathan shakes his head and rolls his eyes. A few seconds later he realises this is the first time he's felt included, or like a part of something, since the whole Fagin thing happened. He's not sure what expression steals over his face after that thought, but Curtis sobers.

'Are you okay?'

'What? I'm stellar.' Nathan says, but it lacks its usual charm, and Nathan hides that behind his milkshake. It's his favourite flavour; chocolate, and he looks away from the group as he keeps drinking, and then abruptly remembers that Fagin used to give him free milkshakes from time to time. He makes a choking noise and puts the shake down, and looks quickly at Simon, who is – of course, Nathan thinks – already looking at him like he can always tell what's going on his brain.

'Well that's a total lie.' Curtis says, droll, but he doesn't say anything else, and he doesn't push. Nathan feels some relief at that, and jerks the sheets of paper out of Simon's hand and looks at the names and phone numbers of exorcists and pretends to be reading that instead.

Conversation resumes around him, clumsily at first, and then more smoothly. They cover a range of subjects, and Nathan doesn't feel the need to jump in at all for some time. He just listens, and he realises from the odd looks they all keep giving him, that this is totally unlike him. He keeps trying to think of hilarious or ridiculous ways to jump back into the conversation, but he can't seem to find the energy or the right words. He thinks he must be more hungover than he'd first suspected. He suspects this might be what everyone else goes through when they experience something awful. It angers him.

So instead he ends up saying something completely different.

'You'll never guess who finally declared his undying love and devotion to me last night by kissing me.' And he points at Simon with his thumb. The conversation crashes to a halt around him. Alisha's hand covers her mouth, Simon – he's pretty sure it's Simon – kicks him hard in the ankle, and Curtis raises his eyebrows comically.

'Are you serious?' He asks Simon.

'Yeah, you better believe it.' Nathan cuts in. 'I don't know about you, but I think this one's a bit, you know, more mental than we realised.'

'It's about time.' Alisha says to Simon with barely repressed glee, and Nathan squints at her because those three words couldn't be implying what he thinks they are; could they?

'Shut up.' Simon says, and Nathan looks at him, and he's clearly flushing with embarrassment. 'It's not what you think. H-he started it.'

'Why on earth would you kiss _that_?' Curtis says to Simon, pointing at Nathan, but he says it in a way which implies he's only joking. Or at least, sort of joking.

'Hey! I'll have you know that I am like Mecca and heaven and rainbows and unicorns and shit all rolled up into one big ball of sexual delight!'

'Yeah.' Curtis says, nodding in disbelief.

'Rainbows and unicorns?' Alisha says, smirking. 'Really?'

'You don't even _know._' Nathan says. She rolls her eyes.

'_He_ does.' She grins at Simon, who shakes his head. He clears his throat and grabs the list of exorcists and mediums back from Nathan.

'Why didn't you just email me with this?' Simon says, changing the subject.

'Because, well, we were worried. You kinda just dropped off the radar.' Alisha admits, and the twinkle in her eyes fades and she shakes her head. 'Of course we're worried. I wanted to see you in person. He wanted to come. I wasn't gonna say no.'

Nathan doesn't say anything. He doesn't want people to be worried. He wants them to go back to joking about how awesome he is at kissing people, and he wants it to be like it was before all this had happened.

'You could've stopped this.' He says to Curtis. 'I asked you. I practically _begged _you.'

'Nathan...' Simon says, but Nathan refuses to look at him.

'I don't know how many times I have to tell you how my power works, but-'

'_He_ learnt how to control his!' Nathan says, his voice rising as he indicates Simon without looking at him. 'He learnt how to do it on command. Why couldn't you? Was it your goal to be as useless at this as you were at marathons? At cocaine?'

'Nathan!' Alisha says, but Nathan ignores her. He glares at Curtis, who returns the glare with a fierceness pulling his mouth tight. A moment later his jaw clenches, and Nathan thinks Curtis might hit him, or shove him. He flinches a little, doesn't even notice, and then he practically leaps out of his chair when Simon places a firm hand on his arm.

'Jesus, get off me!' He shrieks, and in the back of his head is a voice telling him that he is flipping out, that he is flipping out in a cafe, that he has no idea what the fuck is going on. He can't laugh this off, and he can't pretend it didn't just happen, and they won't unsee it, and it's just one more thing that-

* * *

'-You could've stopped-' He pauses, because Curtis' eyes widen in that way that means he's just rewound time. Something happened. Something _happened._

'Was it him? Was it him? Did you see him? Oh, that's right, you can't, did I see him?' Nathan asks, wondering what happens, looking around in fear.

'No.' Curtis says, abruptly.

'Did you just rewind time?' Alisha says, looking at them both in confusion. Curtis is staring hard at Nathan, like he's trying to telepathically tell him something.

'Why didn't you go back further? Why didn't you take it back even more?' Nathan says. A pounding, unsettled fear booms in his heart, in the back of his head.

'Because...' Curtis pauses like he's really thinking about it, and he's doing something else that doesn't seem like him; instead of getting defensive, he's staying calm. Curtis sighs.

'Look, I'm sorry, mate. I have no answers for you that you're going to like. I can only rewind time if I feel something in the moment. Like guilt. And it only goes back so far. I wish I could control it. I don't know how to control it like you do.' Curtis finishes, looking at Simon.

'But you just did it then...' Nathan says.

'Why did it happen?' Simon asks Curtis, but he's looking at Nathan.

'Because I felt bad for you, alright?' Curtis directs his answer to Nathan, and then looks at Simon like he can't handle that eye contact any longer. 'I'm sorry, both of you, I just don't know how to. I wish I could.'

'You're not the only one.' Nathan says, feeling unexpectedly bitter, deflated. He has no idea what just happened, but he thinks maybe he freaked out. He thinks maybe something happened that made Curtis feel bad enough to rewind time. He thinks that this is probably a sign that he is more unstable than he thought he was. He just wants to go to bed and sleep it off like it's all a bad dream.

'One of the exorcists could help.' Alisha says, frowning. 'We've managed to figure out all the other shitty things we've gone through, haven't we?'

There's a pause, and then Nathan laughs. It's a brittle, broken sound, and it's the last thing they hear from him as he excuses himself from the table and walks outside to wait for Simon to finish up. He doesn't want Fagin to see him, but he can't be in that cafe anymore either. He waits in a kind of limbo, stuck between two realities he wishes he, or Curtis, could just undo in the blink of an eye.


	7. Chapter 7

**Reviews are all kinds of love. :)**

* * *

It takes a lot of convincing, but eventually Simon manages to get Nathan to agree to see three of the exorcists that he's shortlisted after researching them. It's the longest conversation they've had in half a day, because Nathan isn't in the mood to talk and Simon isn't one for generating conversation.

Nathan can't stop thinking about the look on Curtis' face after he'd just rewound time, after he'd prevented Nathan from living through something he won't ever be able to remember happening. The complete backpedalling in Curtis' attitude, the way he stopped joking about it, even the way he restrained his temper, it all speaks of a future where Nathan freaks people out for reasons that aren't made of greatness or heroics.

He tries to ignore how all their expressions made him feel, when they thought he wasn't looking, the concern they directed his way. Not concern like; 'oh my god I can't believe you just made another pedophile joke what the fuck is wrong with you,' but the genuine, 'no, really, what is wrong with you, can we help?' concern. Nathan hates it. He always has. What good has it ever done for him? How has it ever stopped any of the inevitable madness from happening in his life? Concern only starts to feel good after he's had a few beers, and maybe some ecstacy, and then it just rolls into a glorious ball of good-naturedness.

This is an entirely different creature to deal with, and Nathan – usually excited about feeling out of his depth – feels completely at a loss.

* * *

The first advertises herself as a mystic, and it's true that Anne Whitewolf Grable has a phenomenal amount of testimonials on her website that all seem to point towards her being a competent exorcist and healer and spirit talker and white lighter and all the other things she lists herself as. They find the right buses to take, and get there in silence. Nathan stares blankly at the footpath as they walk towards her building. He just doesn't know what to expect. Will it hurt? Will it even work? What if the ritual summons Fagin into the room?

He doesn't even want to think about that, but his brain has other ideas. Every scenario is awful, and his deepest fears involve Fagin coming back to life, or worse; learning how to touch people as a ghost, forever continuing the only rollercoaster ride that Nathan had ever wanted to exit.

He heard himself breathe in and out, shakily. He hadn't known he was that frightened until he could hear it out loud, and then he felt his heart jumping and fluttering behind his sternum, his hands were clenched into fists.

'I hope this works.' Simon says, just about the first thing he's said all day that isn't to do with getting the right timetable or looking things up on GPS or the small conversation he had with Curtis and Alisha at the cafe. Nathan looks at him, but Simon has his eyes fixed on the deep violet cladding on the building in front of them. Nathan sees it and wants to laugh, it looks like every new-ager's wet dream. He can't imagine it working. And yet he's terrified to imagine a life where it doesn't.

'I should be saying something extremely insightful about now, or hilarious, or filthy, or all three.' Nathan says, and Simon looks at him. His brow is furrowed, his mouth is thinned.

'I know.'

'You probably prefer me this way, don't you, you silence-loving pervert?' Nathan hopes it sounds more antagonistic and less insecure than he thinks it did.

'No. I don't prefer that anyone I care about go through what you're going through.'

'That's not what I meant and you know it.' Nathan says, wringing his hands together briefly as Simon knocks on the door, as they wait on the front steps.

Simon opens his mouth to say something, but the door opens and a middle-aged woman with immaculately styled brown hair waves them in. Waves of incense waft over them as they enter and Simon coughs discreetly under his hand. There are at least twenty fat candles lit and leaking their dim, yellow light in strategic corners of the room. The office has a plush crimson carpet, a large circular desk with candle-wax stains on it, armchairs, some shelving that holds different items; crystals, Native American figurines, bells and disks of clay, things that Nathan's never seen before. He wanders over to the shelves while Simon introduces them both to Anne the Mystic. Anne the Mystic who is from East Shropshire and offers them some chamomile tea to settle their nerves (they decline). Nathan looks up and sees a lot of windchimes hanging from the midnight-blue ceiling, all with little price tags on them. He wonders if this makes Anne more or less legitimate.

He startles when Anne places a hand on his shoulder, he realises that he must have zoned out of the conversation at some point.

'So dear, let's stop pithering about then, I hear you're in a spot of bother and need a blessed spirit to stop making your life a bit of a mess?'

'Blessed spirit?' Nathan says, with a laugh. 'No, I think you must have misheard, I have a fucked up sadistic pervert ghost that needs to be kicked up the proverbial ass and dumped in whatever layer of hell he deserves to be in. If you could just get right on that so I can get back to my life of fucking and winning, we'll be roses.'

Anne makes a face at him, and then shakes her head and brings her palms together in front of her chest.

'I forgive you for not having compassion in your heart. I will have compassion enough for all of us.' She raises her touching palms to her forehead, and closes her eyes, while Nathan and Simon share a deeply sceptical look.

Nathan steps back when she starts making a deep, guttural humming sound in the back of her mouth, and he braces himself against the shelving unit, feeling like if this does work, shit's about to get real. His breathing comes faster and faster, and he swallows repeatedly around a lump in a throat that refuses to go away.

When she opens her eyes, unseeing, to the room around her, his skin crawls. And then suddenly she looks somewhere behind his left shoulder and gasps.

'There! There he is! I see him!'

Nathan whirls around and ignores the humiliating sound that forces itself out of his throat. But there's no one there. It's just an empty patch of carpet, a wall with a picture of unicorns on it, a cross-stitched placard saying 'Blessed Be' hanging on a shuttered window. Fagin's not there.

'No, he's not.' Nathan gasps.

'You must _believe_ in the power of the spirits!' Anne says, in an otherworldly voice, stepping inexorably towards the empty space, staring at a figure that Nathan can't see at all. He squints even harder, and still can't see anything. He steps backwards towards Simon and frowns at Anne interacting with the empty space by waving her hands slowly and fluidly all around it.

'He's really not there.' Nathan says under his breath, to Simon.

Anne is whispering under her breath at whatever she thinks is there, and it sounds very convincing, and Nathan is pretty sure that if he was anyone else, he'd be buying it. But he's not buying it, because Fagin's not there. Because if Fagin could just appear like that, he'd have just popped into the hotel room. Nathan shivers and reaches up to scratch at the back of his head.

'I release you in love and light!' Anne shouts, and Simon sighs.

'She's a charlatan.' He says. Anne stiffens when she hears that, but ignores them and continues to make fluid, mystical shapes with her hands and arms.

'Maybe they all are. Maybe no one can help. Maybe they're all full of it. Do you really think there's a chance someone can help?'

Simon looks pensive, and then shrugs.

'You have the ability to see dead people. There has to be at least one person out there with the ability to get rid of them. It makes sense as a theory. I'm not giving up.'

'Sure,' Nathan says, not really believing any of it, but hanging onto Simon's hope and trying to cradle it somewhere safe inside of him. There's something about the pragmatism of Simon that makes him feel more soothed than just hearing bland reassurances from people who don't know how to fix the situation. Simon has a plan, he has a to do list, he seems to know what he's doing.

He ignores the fact that Simon created this situation in the first place by killing the douche.

He ignores the other fact that actually he, Nathan, created the situation in the first place by being so desperate for attention he brought this all on himself.

'Well, I'm sure you think you've made a tasty little profit,' Nathan said as Anne turned slowly to face them, 'but the only thing you gave us was an insight into your pilates workout, so if you'll excuse us, we have real exorcists to see.'

She glares at them as they walk past her, and mutters at Simon; 'I shall be sending you an invoice.'

'I understand,' Simon says, 'you'll invoice for time wasted. I'm looking forward to it.'

And then he joins Nathan, and they both walk out together. Simon looks at his GPS and then starts walking decisively back the way they came. Nathan follows, shoves his hands into his pockets, and tries to deal with the mess of his thoughts in his head by not thinking about anything at all.

* * *

The second exorcist is a gentleman wearing long, white robes. He waves them into a lounge-room decorated mostly in violet and olive green, but instead of offering them mystical support, he just shakes his head at them and stands in front of them, searching for the right words. He doesn't seem mystical. He seems like a man who hasn't had a good night's sleep in a while.

'You didn't give me a contact number, otherwise I would've called. I'm retiring from the business, y'see. Ever since the storm, people have been coming to me with problems like...like yours, and I can't help them.'

He pauses and looks up at the ceiling for some kind of invisible assistance.

'I'm starting to think I never knew what I was doing.'

'That must be disappointing.' Simon says, with genuine empathy, and the man nods and folds his arms.

'So you see I can't help you. I wish I could. A few months ago I would've been sure I had. But things are different now, and I've decided that rather than let some more people down, I'm just going to retire. Maybe go back to my watercolours. I used to be quite good when I was younger.'

'Right.' Nathan says, feeling disappointed, even though he knows it wasn't likely to have worked anyway.

'I know, I'm really very sorry. I'm terribly sorry to have wasted your time like this. I wish you the best of luck, though.'

'Do you...do you know anyone who could help us?' Simon says, and he brings some folded papers out of his pocket and hands them over. The man looks through them and makes small sounds under his breath. They all sound disapproving. He looks at the second sheet of paper and then points at a name.

'Her. I'm pretty sure she can give you what you're looking for. She works at Caster, Fletcher and Wright. You know it?'

'The big accounting building? ' Nathan says.

'Amy Wright?' Simon says, uncertainly, reading out the name again, his eyebrows rising.

'That's the one. Amy Wright, big accounting building. She's probably not what you'd expect, but sometimes they're the best ones right? Don't judge a book by its cover and all that. Well, if you don't mind, I'm off to the art store to stock up on some Cadmium yellow. Good luck and all. Wish you the best.'

He hurriedly escorted them out, picking up some house-keys along the way. Nathan wanted to say something about the white robes, but the words and the humour weren't coming together. Not more than ten seconds later they were standing on the street watching the man walk away from them, whistling jauntily under his breath.

'I think I'm going to have to call and make an appointment, for this one.' Simon says, getting out his phone and dialling in the number. He moves away and books a quick appointment, which is surprisingly easy to get, and then turns back and offers a half-smile. Nathan glares at him.

'I don't know what you're looking so cheerful about, if this doesn't work, I've got Fagin following me around for the rest of our eternal lives together. Until he gets bored anyway. And he doesn't seem like the type to get bored. He seems like one of those fixate, obsessive, beat me to death a few more thousand times types.'

Simon's half-smile fades, and instead he points in the direction they need to take, and they both set off down the street again.

* * *

In the elevator, riding up to the fifteenth floor, Nathan is fiddling with his hair in the reflection of the mirrors all around them.

'Why did you kiss me back?' He says, and Simon leans against the mirror and looks down at his hands.

'I wanted to.'

'Aw, liddle Simon has a liddle crush on me! It's adorable, seriously, with your...steely expression and your...shoulders. But...I'm missing something. Help me out here. Why was it meant to be obvious? What was obvious about it?'

The elevator slows to a halt and the doors slide open. Two businessmen step in, holding briefcases. Simon steps out and Nathan follows. They're in a long corridor tastefully decorated, potted plants that are actually alive and not plastic facsimiles bend their dark green leaves healthily in the light. There are many offices up here, and Simon looks around before seeing the one with Amy Wright's name on it. Underneath her name, in squat capitals, the word DIRECTOR rests.

'I'd feel like Mister White Robes would be having us on if it wasn't for the fact that she actually gave us an appointment.' Nathan says, and then he waits to see if Simon will say anything about the kiss. But he doesn't. Simon ignores it and walks towards the door like he does this kind of thing all the time. Like it isn't scaring the crap out of him. For someone so awkward amongst his peers, Simon has adapts remarkably well to everything else that life throws at him. Nathan wonders if he can steal some of that, since he seems to be on low supply.

Amy shakes their hands firmly, introduces herself, waves them in to sit down in front of a large desk. They both take the wooden chairs provided and Simon seems awestruck at the amount of huge, bound books resting behind her in large, wooden bookshelves. To the right are several filing cabinets. The computer on her desk has a massive screen that would be perfect for watching porn, or dealing with being the Director of an accounting firm.

'Yeah, I know right?' She says, looking at them with a wry smile. She searches the room around them both and then sits down in her own plush swivel chair. 'Well. I'm going to tell you how it works on my end, and then you can tell me if that works for you. Okay?'

Simon nods, and Nathan's head jerks once, in assent. He has no idea what to expect.

'As your ghostly friend hasn't come with you, I guess you've given them the dodge for now. Understandable, really, but I can't do my thing without the ghost in the room. I don't know why it works that way, but that's the way it is. I need you to book me for a longer consultation, and I'll come with you to wherever you think they might be. Is it a relative?' She says suddenly.

'No.' Nathan says, shocked at how matter-of-fact she is. There's nothing mystical about this at all.

'That's good, that makes it a bit easier. Because I'm not guaranteeing anything, you see. It doesn't always work. It just _mostly_works. Ever since the storm, I seem to have developed this knack of getting rid of things that people don't want in their lives. In my work as an accountant, that's pretty handy. But it had this weird knock on effect with the dead. I mean, I didn't even believe in ghosts, yeah? So much for that! How long has the ghost been a member of the hurry-up-and-depart-already for?' She adds, and Simon swallows.

'A few days.'

'Good. That's very good. The less time there is between the death and me doing my shit, the better. I have to warn you though, I'd prefer to be booked sooner rather than later. Okay? Early...' she goes to her computer and has a look, '...tomorrow morning, or the morning after. I can do that. Okay? I can clear some of my schedule. I know how shitty some of these things can be, so I've decided to make it a bit more of a priority.'

'How much do you ch-charge?' Simon said, and she shook her head and laughed.

'Are you serious? Look at where I work. You should see my car! Call this a pro bono case. You look like you need it.'

'I have to be in the same room with him?' Nathan says, trying to sort everything out in his head and failing. She sounds like the real deal, but the real deal is telling them that it might not work, that he has to be in the same room with Fagin. What if it doesn't work? What if it doesn't work and then Fagin knows where he is? 'Can't you just...' he flutters his fingers, 'without him?'

'No.' She says abruptly, and then her expression softens. 'Look, the people that come to me, all their ghosts are douches for different reasons. They're desperate. So I know you're desperate and I know yours is a douche too. But I can't do it without you there. Without him there. I wish it didn't work that way. Trust me. I've met some truly craptacular ghosts.'

'I just...' Nathan trails off. He can't handle this. He can't. There's some voice in his head scrambling to tell him that this could work, it just needs to work once and then it's done. Fagin is gone. He can move on from the whole horrible experience and put it behind him. But the idea of deliberately seeking out Fagin's location makes acid rise in the back of his throat. He stands up abruptly and then walks out of the room, ignoring Simon trying to get him to stay, ignoring everything. He closes the door behind him and then leans against a patch of wall, trying not to hyperventilate and mostly failing.

An elderly man in a crisp suit exits his office and looks at him a moment, Nathan thinks the guy might escort him out of the building, but eventually the gentleman just winks.

'Accounting is a pretty stressful business!' He says.

Nathan presses harder into the wall, to stop the trembling that's starting to radiate from his arms and hands into the rest of his body.

'You're telling me!'

He watches as the man steps into the elevator and then disappears. He closes his eyes, bites the inside of his cheek and then winces, starts swallowing the slow ooze of blood down the back of his throat. He's starting to think the inside of his mouth will never heal. But of course it will. He's going to live forever. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back until it hits the wood panelling. Real wood too, not wood veneer. The whole place smells faintly of polish.

The door opens and closes again and he tries to straighten up to face Simon, but can't seem to manage. He sags a little more against the panelling.

'It's our only option. And if she was affected by the storm...she's like us. She can probably do it. No one would expect us to be able to do the things we can do.' Simon says, his voice gentle, the words pragmatic. His hand reaches out and they both pretend that Nathan doesn't flinch as Simon takes him carefully by the forearm and indicates that he wants them both to go into the elevator. Nathan follows and thinks that he might be having a couple of decades worth of breakdowns in a single week.

In the elevator, Nathan looks away from his expression reflected back to him in the mirrors, which is strained and even paler than usual.

'I kissed you because I like you.' Simon says, like they've been in the elevator the entire time.

'Of course you do, the list of reasons to like me are endless.' Nathan says, but the tone is flat, and the joke sounds more like a self-deprecating insult than anything else. He tells himself to pull it together, but he shakes his head, like his body has other ideas. Like it's telling him that it's going to throw itself into despair and all those hideous emotions whether he's coming or not. Usually he likes this quality about himself. It's the same quality that says, 'oh fuck it, let's do it already' when it comes to taking another pill, having another shot, making glorious, wet love with the two girls in the paddling pool filled with jelly.

'I made an appointment with the accountant for tomorrow morning. I thought the sooner we got it out of the way, the better.'

'Tomorrow? In less than 24 hours tomorrow? That tomorrow?' Nathan looks up. 'Jesus, you can't be serious.'

Simon can't seem to think of anything to say, and just as the elevator slides to a halt, Nathan grasps at the railing.

'I don't know about you but, I don't see me going through with it. I'd like to say that I'd found some inner well of strength in the past few days, but I'm going to claim cowardice and I think I'll just skip it. I'm going to discover my inner piker.'

The doors slide open and Nathan propels himself forward, a sour taste in his mouth. He wraps a hand around his torso and winces when his fingers claw into his ribs. He disengages them with some effort and forces his arms to hang down his side, he even swings them a little, tries to find some swagger. He's going to try the 'fake it 'til you make it' method. He thinks he'll have try pretty hard not to think about the exorcism, but it turns out he doesn't need to make any effort at all, his brain lets him vague out, and for a short while at least, he forgets about everything except the feel of his feet hitting the pavement and the presence of Simon beside him.

* * *

They are getting ready for bed, and Nathan is pacing without knowing he's pacing. Eventually Simon walks in front of him with a vexed look on his face and he stops.

'What's your problem?' Nathan says, more antagonistic than he intends. 'Sorry. I was in a groove, I had my rhythm going, trust you to bring it all to a grinding halt.'

'We can do this. Tomorrow. We can do it. But you have to be there. We're...I'm...I'm trying to _help_you. I know you're scared, but-'

'Scared!' Nathan splutters, incredulous, and then he looks up at the ceiling because he doesn't even know why he's bothering. Not with the one who knows about the nightmares.

'I am shitting my fucking pants as we speak.' Nathan says to the plaster curlicues surrounding the light-fixture.

'I know you so well now, I can't tell if it's a metaphor, or if you need to go to the bathroom. Maybe you are shitting your pants.' Simon says, and Nathan can hear the faint smile in his voice. He looks back at Simon and shrugs.

'Anything's fucking possible.' He says, but the it's not jovial, and he sits down on the bed heavily, unwilling to lie down despite tiredness forming a pounding headache in his skull.

'Will you come tomorrow?'

Nathan shakes his head. He keeps shaking it without really knowing he's doing it. And then when he knows, he shakes it even more. No, he thinks. No, no, no. He can't think of anything worse. Fagin as a ghost is somehow creepier than Fagin as a living criminal. Fagin as a ghost, whispering filthy phrases and reminding Nathan of all the things he'd rather forget?

'I threw up, y'know.' Nathan said, apropos of nothing. Simon's brow furrowed and he tilted his head to indicate his confusion.

'The first time. With Fagin. I threw up.' He paused, laughed humourlessly. 'I threw up even before he started. My head was already split open, and I just felt sick. And that was before it got really bad, let me tell you.'

Silence stretched between them, and Nathan passed a hand over his eyes, as though it would help him reset the world.

'So, in answer to your question, no, I'm not coming tomorrow. I know I should. But I've never been very good with 'shoulds.' I don't know about you but, I'm going to keep my head in the sand for a little bit longer. And if you tell anyone about _any_of this, I swear to god and anything else that matters, I will...' he trails off, and decides no threat he can think of is adequate. It doesn't matter anyway, it's Simon. Simon is not, by nature, a gossip.

'Wh-what else happened?' Simon says, and steps back to sit in his armchair. Nathan looks at him in surprise, and is rendered uncomfortable by Simon's expression; concern and horror and something else all at the same time.

'You know. You told me yourself. Rape and murder. Twice!' Nathan says, and Simon purses his lips. Nathan knows this isn't the answer he's looking for, he knows now that Simon wants more. A greater commitment to the truth, to opening up, to being vulnerable.

Nathan holds up a hand to stop Simon from saying anything more.

'Give me a break, already. It's been a long day. Longer than the piece of snot hanging out of my Gran's nose.'

Simon makes the appropriate response of disgust, and then snorts under his breath.

'Alright. But we're talking about it again.'

'Don't bet on it.' Nathan mumbles under his breath, wonders at what point Simon became someone he could talk to. He lies down and looks up at the ceiling again, and wonders how anyone could ever find the strength to face their douchey ghosts.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **Delayed because of holiday, and because of writing original fiction. Reviews are seriously all kinds of love, and thank you so much for the ones that have been left already (and the story faves and subscriptions). You guys are the greatest.

Also, this one has some male/male sexytimes in it. If that bothers you, please don't read.

* * *

The first nightmare comes like a freight train, it slams into him and then powers through him, pushing his organs aside, and leaves him gasping and kicking the blankets off. Simon wakes up abruptly and the heavy hardback on military science that he was reading slides to the floor with a hard thud. Nathan doesn't notice this. One hand is up around his throat, as though if he holds it, or grasps at it, he'll be able to take a full, slow breath. The other hand tries to dig into the sheets.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.' Nathan hears himself say, over and over again. 'Jesus. Jesus, they're not getting any better. Motherfucking sons of bitches.' He ends up saying 'fuck' over and over again, on each exhale, until his breathing slows down. His hand moves from his throat, passes over his eyes, through his hair, and then he leans over and hauls the doona up off the floor. That's when he notices that Simon is awake, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes glinting in the dimness.

'I'm worried about you.' Simon says, and Nathan laughs, but the sound is broken and his throat is hoarse, like he's been screaming for hours. And he's sure he hasn't been.

'That was a bad one.' Nathan responds. 'That was like the nightmare to end all nightmares. You still want me to face Fagin tomorrow?'

Simon pauses, he shakes his head, and Nathan feels a wave of relief wash over him. And then Simon says;

'No, I don't want you to, but I still think you should.'

'Sadist.' Nathan mutters, under his breath, kicking his way under the quilt and trying to find his way back to sleep again. It comes for him quickly, taking him under with its blackness, throwing him deep into the dark.

* * *

The second nightmare creeps up on him gently and softly. At first, it's not like a nightmare at all. Instead, it's a movie montage. Fagin handing him a milkshake and telling him, 'I made it just for you, extra chocolate, just how you like it.' Fagin sharing a conspiratorial wink with him, before following one of the young men from the cafe. A moment of accidentally brushing each other while bustling around behind the counter. The way the sweet aromas of roasted garlic and hearty aromas of beef infused the air at Fagin's house while they'd shared a beer together. The smile that Fagin gave him as he plunged the fork into his chocolate cake and asked, 'is there such a thing as sponge virginity?'

The nightmare caressed him and moved over him, stretching sweetness into all of the corners of his mind. He didn't even have enough sense to be scared of Fagin as it was happening. There was no red flag, there were no instinctive worries, instead his brain shushed him with charm and soothed him with all the things he missed about Fagin, all the things that he craved and hated to admit that he craved. All the things he sought and ridiculed others for seeking.

It was the cruellest of nightmares; well and truly soothing him to a restful place before revealing its darkness.

All his other nightmares had been, so far, explosive, but this one was different. It turned dark slowly. Fagin inside of him, pain everywhere, but receding, because Fagin was slowing down and stroking his curly hair and the shell of his ear and his cheek. Whispering things to him; clichéd, stupid things, about how he could make it feel good, and how 'I always knew you'd be like this,' and crooning 'you're so filthy, Nathan, but just for me, just for me.' And Nathan, swimming in and out of consciousness, fighting against his own body's responses, and yet wanting to sink as far into them as he could so he could escape the horrible pain everywhere else. And then later, a moment of respite, between hits and kicks, at the community centre, where the sole of a heavy boot pressed thoughtfully and unerringly along his spine. Over and over. And Nathan shivering and broken and bleeding on the concrete, and the boot becoming a hand thumbing tears away and gentle whispers.

'Stop it, already.' He'd managed, at the time, and Fagin muttered something under his breath that Nathan never comprehended, and then he curled around the vicious kick that followed. And in his head, over and over again, _stop it, stop it, stop it. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

'Nathan! Nathan! Wake up, g-god just-'

There's an earthquake in the dream, tremors pushing Fagin off him, breaking the world apart with its tremors. He wakes up abruptly, Simon's hand on his shoulder, shaking him, risking being hit or hurt by Nathan, forehead furrowed, eyes wide.

'I'm awake, I'm-' But he can't finish, because his face his wet and his throat is choked up and he balls up under the blankets for a minute, trying to catch himself, trying to get it together. Failing.

Simon's hand remains on his shoulder, and for a moment it's weird, because it's Simon, and because his mind is shaken loose and he doesn't know what to think. And then he registers only sensory feedback. The warmth of the hand, the way his body tilts towards the other body sitting on the side of the bed, that the pressure is unwavering and steady; an anchor. His breathing resolves into something regular, though he still shudders, and he can't seem to stop.

When Simon withdraws his hand, Nathan leans in and follows it, just a little, just enough. The hand returns, more uncertain this time.

'Don't sleep on the chair again.' Nathan hears himself saying, hears the crack in his own voice, thinks that at a time like this he should be doing _anything_ other than showing his vulnerability to someone else. He thinks Simon will choose this moment to be the voice of reason, of caution, to say, 'I don't think that's such a good idea,' but instead the fingers squeeze reassuringly, and Simon's body shifts completely onto the bed. Legs sliding under the covers. He hasn't removed his hand yet.

'And I thought the storm was strange.' Nathan hears himself saying. 'Turns out getting struck by lightning has got nothing on this. These perverted, retarded, machinations of my own stupid brain. Who would've ever thought there'd be a day where, technically, you're all I've got?'

'We all care about you.'

'I don't see anyone else in this room.' And then because he can't help it, his head pokes furtively above the covers so he can check that Fagin isn't there with him. Nathan turns at Simon's sigh, and Simon removes his hand from Nathan's shoulder. He feels it like a loss. Immediately his body starts giving away the small amount of heat he'd gathered from their contact. This registers is an ache in his chest, and he doesn't know why.

'I don't know about you, Barry, but...I don't see me falling asleep again tonight.'

'Nightmares are exhausting.' Simon says, lying down on his side and facing Nathan, smoothing his own hair down so that it's not sticking up anymore. Nathan realises that Simon looks exhausted too. His face is drawn taut, a pulse spasms in his neck. Even in the faint light, he can see it thumping away.

'If you hadn't killed him, we wouldn't be in this mess,' Nathan says. Simon closes his eyes, as though he knows this himself, and then he frowns and opens them again, all that intensity pointed in Nathan's direction.

'He would've kept on doing it. Look at how you are now. Imagine how you'd be in two years time, or five years time, not able to outrun him, unable to talk to anyone about it. He would have... you would have gone insane. And not insane in the 'it's possible to recover with some time in an institution,' kind of way. Not my kind of insane,' Simon grudgingly admits, with a reluctant half-smile, 'I mean, it's too much for anyone. It's too much now. It should never have happened.'

Silence then, and Nathan's heart slows down until he can't hear it thundering in his ears anymore. His body relaxes incrementally into the bed. He can feel Simon's body heat because they're not that far away from each other, facing each other. Nathan has a moment where he imagines leaning forwards, kissing him, but he thinks maybe Simon would definitely stop him then, and he doesn't think he can handle being pushed away. Not tonight.

'It felt good.' Simon said, suddenly, his eyes lidded and his voice deeper and huskier with tiredness. 'It felt good, killing him. And then he came back the way he did. And it was the worst thing. The worst thing that had ever happened to me. And then later, that night, I realised that the worst thing that had ever happened to me was still nothing like what you're g-'

'Shut up.' Nathan says. He shivers, and closes his eyes, and tries not to complete the sentence in his head, even though he already has. 'Just shut up.'

'Sorry.'

'You should be.' He mumbles, and then laughs under his breath. 'You're right though. If you hadn't killed him... I'd be a completely unsexy kind of mad. I wouldn't be glorious, or magnificent, or magnanimous with my advice on how to suck snatch and cock.'

Simon laughs too, quietly, and Nathan risks a peek at him. Simon has his eyes closed, and the worried marks across his brow have faded away. Like this, Nathan thinks he looks much younger than his age, and innocent. Too innocent to be a murderer. A hero.

'G'night, Barry.' Nathan whispers, and dutifully closes his eyes again.

It takes a while for him to fall asleep. And it's not until he inches a little closer to Simon that he's able to do it at all.

* * *

The brain after trauma is unknowingly cruel, and the third nightmare opens its maw and stretches its claws and tears into Nathan with violence.

He wakes up with a jerk, and his whole body lurches, as though he's going to be sick, or start clawing back, but it's an aborted movement and he stills. There is a hand in his hair, a warm body behind his back, soft words. He ignores the choked, coughing sound of trying to catch his own breath, and focuses on Simon instead. Focuses hard, with all his might. He flinches when fingers brush over the spot on his head that had once been split open, and Simon pauses and then skirts around it instead.

'You wouldn't let me take you to hospital for it, but it looked so awful,' Simon says, as though he doesn't expect Nathan to answer. His fingers keep moving through his hair, not tangling with it, finding sure patterns on his scalp. Nathan is trembling and still catching his breath, he leans back into Simon and Simon doesn't push him away. Doesn't stop stroking his hair. There is warmth all around him, but cold down in his bones. When was the last time someone held him like this? He wasn't even aware that he needed it until now.

Nathan twists around and even though his sight is blurred, even though the light is low, he doesn't miss. He finds Simon's mouth and presses his lips against them, desperately ignoring the wetness he finds there, which he knows is from the trackmarks of his tears finding their way to his mouth. He turns awkwardly, grabs onto Simon's shirt, hangs on and keeps kissing. Is, in fact, unable to stop. When he bites Simon's lower lip, Simon responds, hand moving to the back of his neck and turning his head slightly, changing the angle. He opens his mouth against Nathan's, breathes heavily as their tongues slick against each other.

Simon still tastes faintly of toothpaste, and something else that is unmistakeably Simon, dark and musky all at the same time. Simon withdraws when Nathan gets too frenzied, fractions of seconds that teach Nathan to slow down, to go at a difference pace. Nathan wonders why he's never kissed slowly like this before, because it's driving him crazy in a good way. Simon slowly explores Nathan's mouth with his tongue, explores Nathan's lips with his lips and teeth. Drags his lips across Nathan's and presses his cheek against Nathan's cheek. Both breathe heavily, and then Nathan's head moves back when Simon's thumb rubs against his lower lip.

'Fuck.' Nathan says to no one in particular. _This is what hotel beds are meant to be for._ He thinks.

Without moving his thumb away, Simon moves back, begins kissing him again, uses his thumb to stroke his lips, his cheek, his jaw-bone, the underside of his neck. Nathan's hard now, and the memory of the nightmares are deep underwater, too deep for him to want to pay any attention to them.

Nathan whines, and then presses forwards, and Simon leans back, breath hitching.

'We-we can't do this.' He says, as though he's convincing himself. His voice is deeper.

'Okay, okay, we can't do this. Except that we are, and we can, right?' Nathan leans in again, and Simon pulls back a little.

'You're using me. You're using me to forget.' Simon says, using words to cut through the sensual fog that's been clouding Nathan's thoughts.

And Nathan considers this. He considers it seriously. He thinks about the week he's had. The nightmares. A hollow, awful emptiness yawns wide inside of him and he swallows.

'Yeah. Yeah, maybe.' He says; his voice shakes. '_Please_ be okay with that.'

'I...' Simon drifts off, as though this wasn't the answer he was expecting. In the dimness, he tilts his head to the side and Nathan gives him time to think, even though he doesn't know if this is the right thing to do. Without thinking, his hand clenches at Simon's shirt and he pulls himself forward just a little, another centimetre. And Simon responds, leaning towards Nathan, pressing his forehead to Nathan's forehead.

'Okay.' He says.

And then Simon's mouth is on his again, sure and hypnotic, warm and thorough. Nathan rolls backwards and Simon rolls with him, half covering his body and sliding a muscled leg between Nathan's. Their breathing pauses at the same time, and then Simon soothes him with fingers caressing the side of his face, lips moving wetly across his jawbone, along his sensitive neck. And then Simon's other hand is pulling at his shirt and Nathan's lifting slightly so he can pull it off himself. Before he's even settled back onto the mattress, Simon's hand is trailing a fiery path down the middle of his torso.

'Jesus.' Nathan hears himself sigh.

'I used to think about this a lot.' Simon whispered, pressing his lips to Nathan's lingeringly, before moving down and biting his collarbone gently, palming Nathan's hip, fingers sliding beneath the hem of the tracksuit pants.

'You did?' He hears himself say, voice breathier than usual. He keeps his eyes closed, and has no idea what he's asked for. What does forgetting mean, to Simon? He thinks maybe he should ask and then decides to keep his mouth shut when Simon's hand drifts further and further down between his legs, close to his cock, but not touching. _Why does it not surprise me that he is a total cocktease?_ Nathan thinks.

Simon never responds. His mouth travels further south, tongue and teeth grazing lightly over one of his nipples. Nathan whimpers, and Simon's other hand grips harder, his whole body moves closer in reply. Nathan can't help but get the impression that he is being consumed by this man who he under-estimated from day one, and will probably keep doing until the end of time, because Simon just has too many tricks up his sleeve. Who knew he was so built? Who knew he'd be any good at this? That out of all five of them, he'd be the one who'd shoulder the responsibility of their mutations with the most courage?

Nathan's hands lift and move under Simon's shirt, running along compact muscle and wiriness, but the angle is awkward because Simon's moving further down. It takes a moment before Nathan realises what he's doing, where he's headed.

'Shit. Really?' Nathan says, and Simon looks up at him while hooking his fingers into Nathan's tracksuit pants and manoeuvring them down. Nathan is unable to look away, and then his mouth drops open when one of Simon's hands wraps around his cock firmly, confidently. Simon's gaze is easily as intense as the feeling of those five fingers around him, and he finds that he can't breathe properly, and the ability to form thoughts scatters.

'Jesus,' Nathan chokes, and then his head thumps back down onto the bed when Simon starts moving his hand up and down. Nathan reaches up and places a hand over his eyes, even though there's nothing to block out, and he can still feel wetness on his cheeks. He winces at that, but the nightmares stay far away, the memories are on mute.

He feels a hot, slick tongue push itself into the tip of his cock and he's completely lost. He hears the start of some broken sound, and sinks so deeply into sensation that he doesn't hear the rest of it. Maybe the nightmares sensitised him, maybe it's just that it's _Simon_, but this is way better than just about anything else he's experienced while not high on drugs.

The tongue becomes a mouth enveloping him, sliding down, and he arches up and Simon pulls back, choking, and there's a moment. A pause where Nathan looks up again, guilty for thrusting up, and Simon looks at him, also guilty, for withdrawing. They stare at each other, breathing hard, Simon's hand still moving up and down, up and down, and Nathan swallows thickly.

'I...I've thought about it,' Simon says suddenly, continuing their earlier conversation, 'but...that doesn't mean I'll be any good at it.'

'Are you shitting me, Barry?' Nathan's incredulous. Not at Simon's lack of experience in blowjobs; that's entirely expected. But Nathan can't believe that Simon thinks that this has been a subpar performance so far. Because it's been fucking amazing. 'You could have an alternative career as a fluffer. I mean, I don't know about you, but I think that's a totally viable income stream if you ever get tired of being a superhero spy deviant. You can be a perverted fluffer instead.'

It's hard to form sentences, but he manages, even with the heat in him being stoked by that firm and clever hand. It makes sense – Nathan thinks – that Simon would be good at this. The man has probably spent at least as much time jerking himself off in darkened rooms as Nathan has. Simon's other hand moves up and strokes his torso, presses into his side, smoothes over his upper thigh, and Nathan is disarmed and vulnerable. It's been a while since he's been able to enjoy anything like this at all. It feels like it's been months, though it's been far less time than that. But it's long enough for him.

Simon holds his gaze for a little while longer. His expression is serious even now, and maybe even worried, and Nathan remembers – like he'd asked an hour ago and not just a few minutes – that Simon thinks this is just about forgetting. About being used. And Nathan thinks that it's those things, maybe, and it could be more than that. Because this doesn't feel cheap, and it doesn't seem superficial. But before he can think of how to say this in a way that doesn't sound pathetic or trite, Simon's other hand braces against his hip and his mouth envelopes Nathan's cock again, sliding down and joining the place where his hand is moving.

And then Nathan stops thinking, and he's pretty sure his eyes just rolled up in the back of his head. He is sensate and raw, abraded by the days that have passed and the hours that tick on by, by the nightmares and the pain of waking up again into reality. And Simon seems to know that Nathan can't handle things being stretched out, or maybe that's just not his style, because the tempo increases and Simon sucks more insistently and Nathan is sketching out pained, sweet sounds on almost every exhale.

There is a moment, a blinding, breaking moment just as his balls start to tighten, as his legs start to tense and he's fisting one hand in the sheet and one in the pillow beside his head, when suddenly it's all too much. He opens his mouth to tell Simon that he can't deal with this. It's too much. It's the reason why he couldn't jack himself off. It's too close to all the other oblivions; too close to the oblivion of death, of his head hitting the door, of collapsing onto concrete and a boot in the ribs. It expands inside of him, huge and unrelenting; but Simon isn't looking at him and Nathan can't remember language, and instead it explodes in glittering shards in his mind as he comes.

Simon removes his hand almost reluctantly, and then trails it up Nathan's torso as he moves back up the bed, reaches over Nathan for a tissue and spits his come out into it. And Nathan is trying to drag some kind of retort in response to that through the fuzziness, but he gets as far as 'come on, I don't spit it out when I taste it, why do you have to?' and he discards it and collects his breath together instead.

He doesn't expect Simon to remain close. To press his forehead into the side of Nathan's head. And then when he feels movement into the mattress, when he knows that Simon is pushing his hips down hard into the bed, he slides his eyes sideways.

'Barry...do you want me to give you a hand with that?' He leers, and Simon pauses, and then sighs. His breath blows against the side of Nathan's face, smelling of sex. There's a thin layer of sweat between them where their faces are touching, skin to skin, and Simon's hand has stretched out possessively over Nathan's torso.

'Not tonight.'

There's a pause, and then Simon's hand presses into Nathan's skin, fingers splaying.

'I...don't know if I did the right thing. Tonight. With you.'

'Not if you think some magical blow-job is the answer to all of life's questions and problems. Though, you know, before this month, I actually thought it _would _be. Sucks to be wrong about that, huh?'

'Did it help, at all? Do you feel better?'

Nathan closes his eyes. He reaches across and covers Simon's hand with his own. His fingers are longer than Simon's, and he feels, for a moment, like he is the one protecting Simon. Which is ridiculous. And then he thinks maybe it isn't. But Nathan's way is honesty, and he has to be honest.

'No. I feel fucking miserable. I don't know about you, but I've decided to put recovering from rape on my 'anti-bucket' list.'

But as he says it, he realises that it's not entirely honest. He turns into Simon and ends up with his face sandwiched between Simon's and the pillow, feeling hurt and bitter, satiated and frustrated all at the same time. His eyes open, and he stares into the darkness of Simon's neck, feels the warmth radiating from him.

'Still. Felt good.' He says.

'W-what are we doing?' Simon says, his voice small and tired. The question settles around them both, and Nathan thinks that he's probably the last person who can answer it. But he decides to try.

'We're fucking around in a hotel, like champions. Isn't that what we're _supposed_ be doing? Isn't that – really – what life is all about?'

Simon laughs under his breath, and their hands squeeze together. Simon's motion is sure, and Nathan's is more like a spasm.

'Jesus, I'm so fucked up.' Nathan whispers. 'It's never bothered me until lately.'

'You're not the problem. Not in this.'

'You don't understand.' He replies, resisting the tiredness, not wanting anymore nightmares to find him, unhappy that a fantastic blowjob hasn't really helped him to forget at all.

'So tell me.' Simon yawns. 'Tell me. You think it's your fault, don't you? You-'

'I'm not talking about this tonight.' Nathan says, perturbed that Simon has him so figured out. 'I'm not talking about this until he's gone. He might never be gone. I fucking hate that stupid storm. Being immortal and shit.'

It's the first time he's said it to anyone. And he's never really known how true it is, until he says it out loud. It wasn't true at first; but all the dying wears a man down, and the more time that goes by and he experiences physical invincibility; he thinks something inside him is eroding away. Something he used to have a lot more faith in. He has no idea what that is, maybe his mojo.

'Please, tomorrow, the exorcism...' Simon says.

'Fuck you, you little bastard. Just as we're falling asleep. Did you...' his eyes widen and he has to cast around to find the breath to finish the sentence, he feels like he's just been punched in the gut, again. '...Did you plan this? Did you do this just to get me to say yes to your stupid plan?'

Silence, and then Simon jerks his hand back from Nathan's torso, and in that moment Nathan realises that he's hurt his feelings. More than hurt. He reaches out, grabs at Simon blindly, pulls him back though Simon's resisting against him. His whole body tense in the dimness.

'Sorry. Sorry, Barry. Trust issues.'

Simon relaxes again, slowly, and then leans in again, though there's something about the cant of his body that says he's still hurt. He's still thinking about it. Nathan wishes he could take it back, but he doesn't know how.

'Shit.' He says, at himself, more than anything else.

'I-It's okay.'

'Don't bullshit a bullshitter, man. Just don't. Look, I'll think about it. I'll think about the exorcism. If you're there, maybe I can do it. _Maybe._But even if it works, don't expect it to be all sunshine and cumshots afterwards, because I'm starting to think I'm all about that whole when you look into the abyss it looks into you and fucks you up schtick.'

'I'm not going anywhere.' Simon says with conviction, and Nathan shivers because that could be true, because he's grateful, because he doesn't know what it's going to mean; tomorrow, the next day, the next month. And then he reaches out behind him and awkwardly pulls the doona over them both and tries not to think about it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Warnings: **This one gets messy folks; not that you didn't know that if you've been following this fic. References to rape, and general squickiness.

**Author's Note: **Okay, okay, I know, I suck right? I started a Master's degree, and kind of forgot I had a life. But I promise I will have this story completed by mid-October. Only two more chapters to go! Maybe a third at the most.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Nathan wakes up early. A dull light suffuses the room, and even that seems painful to his eyes and he squints against it. Already his heart is pounding, and he lies there and feels his pulse points jarring in discordant rhythms. Without really thinking about it, he turns and reaches out to the other side of the mattress, checking that Simon is still there. His fingers pass over sheets and pillows and nothing else.

He sits up, scrubs at his eyes, runs a hand through his hair. Simon wasn't in the room with him, the bathroom door was open and there was no sounds of running water or the normal sounds that come from a body shifting, the whole place was completely silent. In the distance he can hear a vacuum cleaner; a room being cleaned out for new clients perhaps.

'Barry?' He says, hesitant.

He jumps when Simon suddenly appears, seated, on the chair where he usually sat. He had one leg hunched up, an arm wrapped around it, and he was staring broodingly ahead. That bleak, worried expression was one that Nathan had seen before, and usually dealt with by trying to tease it away, transforming it into anger, or something more dynamic than static pain. So Simon had been sitting in the room, invisible, for god knows how long. Brooding, for god knows how long. Fucking great, Nathan thinks.

He thinks he should ask what is wrong, but he doesn't know how to start that conversation. Maybe Simon's mood is to do with him, maybe it's to do with the blowjob, maybe it's to do with the exorcist, and with so many maybes, he can't think of anything else to say. A short while later, Simon flickers out again, invisible once more and Nathan panics.

'Hey! Barry! Give a guy a chance to think of what to say first thing in the morning after the late night blowjob, will you?'

Simon comes back, looks at him for a beat and then sighs.

'Anti-depressants not kicked in yet?' Nathan volunteers on a smirk. He isn't feeling up for banter, knowing that any moment they'd be getting dressed, getting ready to go look for Fagin. And then he wonders at what point he'd decided to give it a try when every instinct in his body says he should be running away as fast as his legs can carry him.

'What's going to happen if the exorcism works?' Simon says, softly, darkly, and Nathan's face pushes together in confusion.

'You mean if it doesn't work, right?'

'No, I mean, wh-what's going to happen with...us? With this?' He waves his hand around the hotel room. 'With what we shouldn't even be doing, because you're vulnerable and I'm...' he trails off, puts his head in both of his hands, covers his face so that Nathan can't see his expression anymore.

'A pervert?' Nathan says, and smiles when Simon looks up at him.

'I just wanted to help you. But the first time I really think I'm helping, we end up with us in this predicament hoping to find an exorcist that can help us. And the second time I think I'm helping, I feel like this. We're not together. You're the last person I should be interested in, and I _know_ that,' it was like Simon had gone through these things before, in his head, a thousand times; these sounded like old arguments, 'I've tried not to be, because you're insensitive and rude, and I'm...I try to be the opposite of those things. I try not to like you. I had it all figured out before all of this happened, and then you were _hurt_ and you came to me and I couldn't turn you away. And then last night. I-I'm not as okay as I thought I'd be, about it. About just fulfilling a f-function.'

'Oh.' Nathan says. It was rare for Simon to string more than three sentences together, and he feels bowled over by the information. And then he grimaces. 'Maybe it started like that, but I wouldn't let just anyone blow me...'

At Simon's expression, he shakes his head.

'Okay, okay, maybe I would. But that's not what that was about, I... yeah, maybe at first. I don't know about you, but, sex is kind of the last thing I want to be doing right now. And kissing. And all that romantic sensual shit that I'm usually so amazing at. Think of it like an algebra equation; you're X, and I'm Y, and together we equal 'let's not question it because it seems to be working right now.'

Simon glowers.

'That makes absolutely no sense. That isn't algebra.'

'You're asking me what happens once he's gone, I can't even imagine a world where that's possible. It's too much hope, right now. I can't imagine a world with that twat not in it, because it might not ever happen. And you're asking me about a tomorrow I can't even think about without shitting myself, and I don't know. I don't have an answer, man, I spent last night crying, cumming, at different times, at the same time, I'm fucking all over the place. I'm a catherine wheel on steroids. I'm a rollercoaster that David Lynch invented. I'm-'

'Stop.' Simon says, and stands. He closes his eyes and then walks over to Nathan and looks down at him, his face set. And then he allows a small smile to shine through, just a tiny one. 'I didn't know you knew who David Lynch was.'

'Are you serious? Did you not see that hot lesbian action in _Mulholland Drive_?'

'I did.' Simon says with a bigger smile, and he sits beside Nathan and chuckles low in his throat. 'I did see that.'

'Pervert.' Nathan says, trying to jump on top of the warmth building in his gut. Trying to jump on top of any delusional good feeling that might not last.

'Melon fucker.' Simon retorts, and Nathan raises his eyebrows in mock insult and Simon shrugs.

'You wouldn't say it if you hadn't given it a go at least once. And with you, anything's possible.'

'Don't knock it until you try it, my friend.'

And then just like that reality seems to hit both of them, and they stare at each other silent and grim, the possibilities of the morning stretching out in front of them. Nathan hears his breathing speed up, and he watches Simon's eyes fall to his chest, glued to the fast rise and fall. And Nathan pretends that he doesn't flinch when Simon reaches a hand out and presses his palm against Nathan's heart, feeling it thunder through shirt and flesh. When he looks back up at Nathan, there seem to be too many emotions for one face to carry and express. Nathan swallows.

'I won't leave you.' Simon says, and Nathan looks sideways, unable to face the power of that gaze, unable to offer anything nearly as strong in response except his terror.

'I won't.' Simon insists, and Nathan wants to extinguish that resolve and cherish it all at the same time. Instead he does the only thing that he seems to think will solve things when he's with Simon, he leans forwards and presses his lips against Simon's mouth. Except that he misses the first time, because he's hardly looking, and he gets his cheek. And then he slides his lips down and moves them against Simon's, tasting morning and what he imagines could be sadness and determination and all those other feelings that Simon seems to have permanently embedded inside of him.

Simon kisses back with the same quiet desperation, and Nathan's hands come up and grasp at him, hold on, and he starts to tip them back onto the bed so that they can keep on going, and Simon reaches his own hands out and stops him. And then pulls back.

'We have to get ready.' He says.

Nathan takes a deep inhale and stands with an enthusiasm he doesn't feel.

'Right then. It's time to put on my big girl knickers and deal with this twat!'

Simon stands up as well, and puts his determined face on. The one that deals with bad guys effortlessly. Well, mostly effortlessly.

'That sounded cocky enough, right?' Nathan says, 'I mean, metaphorically, the only reason I've put on my big girl knickers is because I've shat my way through everything else. And not even like manly shits, I mean the liquid fear shits that- okay, okay, I'm stopping. I'm stopping!' He holds his hands up at Simon's look of disgust and heads towards the shower, working hard to convince himself that he's not about to put himself through hell.

* * *

Amy Wright is consistently not what Nathan expects her to be. When she picks them up in her car, she throws breakfast wraps at them as Simon gets into the front seat with papers and the GSP on his phone ready to go, and Nathan slides into the back. The interior of the car is leather and smells beautiful, but Nathan keeps expecting new age trinkets to show up _somewhere _and he can't see anything. Not a crystal hanging from the rearview mirror, no pentagram around her neck, no flowy robes, just regular business attire.

'We'll try Kelly's first.' Simon says, and then explains why the ghost might be there to Amy. She interrupts frequently with all kinds of questions. Some seem pertinent, some seem friendly and conversational, like she's not about to conduct an exorcism of a ghost at all. There's no invocation of 'special' atmosphere. Nothing. It almost puts Nathan at ease, except in the way that it totally doesn't.

'You're both like me, aren't you? Affected by the storm?' She says, as they wait at some traffic lights. 'Don't be coy or nothin', it's just, a few people got the ability to see ghosts and shit after the storm, and so I know there's more than one of us out there. Affected and keeping quiet about it. Who wants this shit to get in the tabloids! Fucking tabloids.' She mutters to herself, and then pins Nathan with her direct gaze by staring at him in the rear view.

'Yeah, I can see dead people.' Nathan says, weakly.

'Bet you wish you couldn't.'

'I wish a lot of things, believe me.' He says, and then smiles anyway, 'but most of them have been alright. Just people I knew, and they went on their own way afterwards.'

'Except the fuckstick we're looking for.'

'Except him.' Nathan says, and he looks away from the mirror and ends the discussion, because it's just too much. He gets that she's probably trying to distract him from what he's feeling, he even appreciates that she's got a kind of directness he would normally like – even fall for – in different circumstances. But right now he can't think about any of that. He just wants to go blissfully blank. He wants to not think about how he caused this whole situation, about how he was so needy, and he definitely doesn't want to think about how he just wanted someone to be nice to him; to care about him, in a way that makes him a desperate, whiny loser.

* * *

Nathan reluctantly enters Kelly's Mum's home behind Amy and Simon. He looks around furtively, and then follows them into each of the rooms. But Fagin isn't there, and instead it feels stupid to be looking for a ghost like this; except that everyone's expression is deadly serious. He suppresses the urge to laugh hysterically.

'You've lost weight.' Kelly says to him, accusingly, as they finish looking around the last bedroom.

'I see you haven't. That's okay, you can be the linebacker to my-' he breaks off when he realises his voice is shaking. Simon turns and looks at him in concern, and Kelly frowns.

'It's not as funny when you're like this.' She says, and then reaches out and takes his hand. 'But it's not even funny at all, yeah? I saw bits and pieces, and that was enough for me. I still dream about it.'

'We can be dream buddies.'

'Don't be stupid.'

'Besties in nightmare land.' He says, realising that Simon is suggesting to Amy that they go back to his apartment. He shivers, he thinks this might be it. This is probably where they find Fagin, where it's all going to go down. He swallows down a need to start heaving for air, and squeezes Kelly's hand harder than he intends. She winces, and he looks down and releases it.

'Whoops. The only recipient of that choking grip is usually my cock.'

'Nice to see you haven't changed.' Kelly says with a smile, and then she hugs him, slowly, and without sudden movement. Nathan sags into it, pressing his head into her neck, remembering that once upon a time all he thought about when he was with her, was how to get into her panties. And now all he can think about is Fagin, and Simon, and how it's probably not going to work out, and how Simon's lips feel against his, and the whole mess of everything.

Kelly steps back and from her expression, he can tell that she's read some of what he's thinking.

'I'm sorry.' He says.

'It's not your fault, Nathan.' she says it like she's trying to convey more than just an acknowledgement that he can't help what he thinks about. But Amy is already walking out of the apartment, and Simon is calling for Nathan, and he looks over his shoulder at Kelly as he leaves, wishing he could believe her.

* * *

They ride the elevator up to Simon's floor together, and Nathan stares doggedly ahead, unable to respond to Simon's quiet questions or Amy's reassurances. His eyes are burning and dry, his hands are shaking, and he's vomited twice already. Once in the car, on his hands, because he didn't want to get anything on the upholstery (though Amy immediately said she didn't mind and that she'd done worse on some of her benders), and then once outside the building. He can taste bile and for some reason, blood, even though there was none.

When the first screen opens, Nathan pales, but sees nothing, no one. It's just Simon's empty apartment. The fluorescent lights turn on, making heavy sounds as they do, as though the weight of their light is difficult. Simon steps out and looks around, like he could see anything at all. And then Nathan and Amy follow slowly. Nathan feels cold sweat trickling down his spine, feels the tautness of his skin as his hairs stand on end. His whole body knows before he does.

And then Fagin steps out from behind the elevator, and grins. Rakes him up and down with his eyes, a knowing invasion that leaves Nathan breathless and scoured out.

'You've lost weight,' he says, a perfect imitation of Kelly's concern, 'not been taking care of yourself?'

'N-Nathan?' Simon says, and Nathan doesn't know how he's still standing.

'I've missed you, only had thoughts of you to keep me company, but I knew you'd come back to me. I've been thinking about our first night together. You remember that, don't you? You complaining about the pain like I wasn't the best thing that ever happened to you, and me realising that you don't die, and I could just...again and again and again, if I wanted to.'

Nathan makes some kind of inarticulate sound. He knows he does, because he feels it in his throat, knows it twisted its way free, but he doesn't hear it, because Fagin's words are reverberating around in his head. His heart has given up on trying to keep him alive, and is simply trying to claw its way out of his chest.

'It's always the shits that stay.' Amy says suddenly, her own face pale, and then looked at Nathan as she opened her own clutch. 'I didn't know you were immortal.'

'He's here?' Simon says, like he's still catching on, and then once he realises that Fagin really is here, that two people can see him now, his face takes on a greenish hue and he stands closer to Nathan. Like that could possibly protect him.

'He's disgusting.' Amy says, taking a rosary out of her bag and wrapping it around her hand. Fagin takes a cursory look at it, and then ignores it, stalking unerringly fast towards Nathan instead, who steps backwards in a way that his legs don't understand, and he ends up collapsed on the floor, one hand in front of him, trying to fend off the incorporeal. He's gasping, and Simon's shouting something, and Amy yells back at him something that sounds like; 'I need a minute!'

And he hears Simon, desperate, shouting back; 'a minute's too long! Get it done!'

But all he can see is Fagin's face in front of him. The face of the man that seemed to understand him, offer him generosity and kindness, and all the things that he'd so dearly wanted, that he thought he finally had. And stupid things are crossing his mind; sharing Fagin's sweet and sour lunch with him, getting free milkshakes, joking about the clients behind their back, talking about impossible dreams and what they'd do with lotto money.

'I know what you're doing, mate,' Fagin says, his eyes flicking over to Amy and her rosary, her look of concentration, the way her hands were clasping together. 'I know, but even if it works, I'll still be here.' He leans down over Nathan, and presses his face so close to Nathan's that he thinks his own skull might start to sink into the concrete floor. He's definitely gasping now, and his hands are scrabbling at the floor. He wants to rise up, lurch away, but the idea of any part of his body going through Fagin's is revolting and impossible to imagine, and so he stays pinned on the ground instead.

'I'll be inside you, still, like I was at my house, and at that community centre. You let me into your heart. And your arse. And everywhere else, yeah? You were the best fun I _ever_had. I've had time to think about it, I even think you were worth dying for. Spending myself up in you, and the sounds you made, like the ones you're making now, hey. I almost-'

And then suddenly Fagin's pushing backwards, away from Amy's rosary-wrapped hand which has thrust right at him. And he's backing up hurriedly and putting his hands up like he's surrendering. And Nathan can't watch, he thinks he's going to black out, his eyes stare up at the ceiling and there's a grey haze all around him, he's sure.

'You're all such motherfuckers,' Amy says to Fagin, and then a ball of light curves around the rosary and she flings it at him. 'Just fucking _go _already.'

There's a hollow rushing pop, a flash of light, and then Amy sits down wearily on Simon's bed, and Nathan is being helped into a sitting position by Simon while trying not to cringe away from him at the same time. Simon lets go as soon as Nathan seems capable of propping himself up on his elbows, like he knows that anyone being close to him is just a bad idea right now. He stays close, but not too close.

Nathan looks around the room in disbelief.

Fagin is gone.

'Is that it? Are you serious?' He says, and his voice is reedy and broken, and he ignores it, because he's better now, isn't he? He's all fixed, the problem is gone, and he's back to being his old self, and it will all be fine. He sits up further, pushing with all his might because his arms feel so weak.

She shrugs.

'They never come back if the light takes them. Turns out you don't need to be all nice and white-lighty and shit. You just need to tell them to get bent. And go through a weird storm. And summon a literal white light that still makes no sense because you're an atheist and this,' she holds up the rosary wrapped around her hand, 'belonged to my Nanna.'

'That can't be it.' Nathan hears himself say.

Amy gets up shakily, and Simon moves over to her in concern, but she shakes her head at them both.

'It takes a bit out of me, that's all. Nothing a good hangover cure won't fix. Besides, I'm glad to help rid the world of total douches like that one. But you never answered my question, you're immortal?' She purses her lips at Nathan, and he can't answer, but his silence seems to be enough of a response for her.

'Then you might need me again,' she says on a frown. 'Simon's got all my numbers, yeah? You call me, say it's you lot, and I'll drop my schedule straight away. A shitty ghost and an immortal person who sees them? Can't think of anything worse. But you knew that. Anyway, I can think of about a hundred burgers with my name on them, so I'm going now. Cheers and all that.' She smiles weakly, and then yawns and stretches and puts the rosary back in her clutch.

'I can see myself out.' She adds to Simon, and walks to the elevator and closes it behind her. And then just like that, she's gone.

Nathan clumsily gets to his feet, and then slowly steps backwards until his shoulders hit the wall, and uses that for support. He looks around Simon's apartment slowly, thoroughly, but it really seems like Fagin is gone. His skin no longer has goosebumps, even the cold sweats seem to have shut down.

'H-he's really gone?' Simon asks.

Nathan nods, but doesn't feel up to anything else. Everything seems unreal, and worse, beneath it all is this sense that nothing is okay. Nothing is fixed like he thought it would be. He doesn't know if he can face another day of not being okay about it, of the whole reality of it not just sinking down into the lake of all the other shitty experiences he's had that don't bother him anymore. He closes his eyes.

'I thought I'd feel different.' He says, and bites his own cheek as he says it, because he feels like a massive dick for not knowing what else to expect. The wound in his cheek opens, and he tastes blood in his mouth and tries not to think about it, how it reminds him of Fagin, how it's not all done and dusted now like he thought it would be.

The apartment is silent except for the hum of the fluorescent lights.

And then the sound of his own breathing interrupts the hum, and he realises he's starting to hyperventilate. He clutches at the wall, tries to get whatever he's feeling under control, but the universe seems to have a different idea entirely, and he's surprised when his eyes burn wet instead of dry, and tears start dripping down his face.

'It wasn't his fault,' he says, his voice breaking, 'it wasn't his fault, he was actually _nice_ to me, for ages. So much nicer than most people, he really seemed to give a shit, you know? About _me_, of all people. And it wasn't his fault that things turned out the way they did, it wasn't-' he has to stop, because the sobs are closing his throat up, and he doesn't know how else to convey the horror and shame and guilt inside him.

And then there are strong arms on either side of him, helping him to the floor because he can't stand anymore. Simon puts a palm over the back of his head and draws him close, and Nathan thinks it might be such a nice thing to do for someone, for him, that he can't stand it. And he's sobbing and hyperventilating and trying to move away to let Simon know that he can't take someone being nice to him again, because look how it turned out last time, and then he can't struggle anymore, and his body goes limp and he's clutching onto Simon's shirt like a lifeline.

'I knew it.' Simon says, when the sobs start to taper off some time later, when the hyperventilating becomes shuddery and even, when Nathan can only feel warm, damp fabric against his face because he's cried so much.

'Knew what?' Nathan hears himself say.

'I knew you hated yourself more than I ever hated myself. More than any of us did.'

Nathan looks up, and smiles in acknowledgement, because it was always true. He was spectacular and marvellous and a fantastic lay and a super friend, and the only reason he had become so invincible in the first place was because he had learned to live with loathing such a long time ago, he had learned to internalise it, turn it into something productive, make a life out of it. And then the smile fades and he shakes his head, he wants to say something, he wants to say that he fucked up this time, that he didn't know there was something out there that would break him like this, that he didn't know that being immortal could be such a fucking drag, but he can't find the words.

Simon smoothes a hand over his shaking back over and over again, and Nathan doesn't know where the energy comes from when he starts to sob all over again.

'Shit.' He says in pain, in frustration, and Simon sighs.

'I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.'


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: **I've decided to extend this story another chapter or two (it was originally only going to be 11 chapters), so for that reason it will take me a little longer to finish, but I'm still aiming to get the whole thing done by end of November this year at the latest. :)

But if you want to help speed things along, remember, _reviews are love. _:) And thank you to everyone who has left reviews so far, and fave'd and added the story to watch lists and everything. It means a lot.

* * *

Nathan stares up at the ceiling, Simon's mattress beneath him. The fluorescents burn overhead and in the kitchen area Simon is making some toast. He'd gone for an hour to pick up his stuff, pay the hotel extra to cover for any damages they might have inadvertently left behind. Nathan had wanted to protest and ask him to stay, but after his marathon sobbing session it was hard to talk at all. In the end Simon had coaxed him to lie down on the bed and Nathan hadn't moved since. He was all floaty and blank, and it was not unlike how he started to feel a few weeks into lying in a coffin in the dark. Dimly, he realises this might mean that being buried alive has probably impacted him more than he originally thought it did.

The mattress weight leans as Simon sits down next to him.

'Are you hungry?' He says, his voice soft and low. Nathan imagines shaking his head, but the energy to do just that seems so immense he lies there hardly blinking. He stares up at the ceiling.

Simon puts the toast on the floor and then stands up and walks around to the other side of the mattress. He pauses, and then gets on the bed, and ends up lying on his side next to Nathan who can feel the weight of his gaze on his face. It feels like an anvil.

'Even your breakdowns are spectacular.' Simon says. He reaches out a hand and threads some fingers delicately through Nathan's hair. At this, Nathan closes his eyes and wonders why he isn't sleeping. He is so exhausted.

'I'm not better.' He manages, his voice thick, sounding like he sounded when he had the flu. The fingers moving through his hair don't pause, and Nathan has no idea how much time passes between his stating the obvious and Simon's response.

'There was a boy...in the facility. You know, when I was...you would call it m-mental. He wasn't really a boy, I suppose, he was our age. His parents didn't want him, and the first foster home he went to seemed like a dream come true. Parents who really loved him. And he needed that. I mean, he n-needed it. And it turned out that they were just setting him up to be used by them. You know. Sexually. And he ended up in the facility.'

'This is such a happy story.' Nathan says, but his sarcasm comes out flat and lifeless.

'It's not a happy story. I think I'm trying to say that it doesn't get better just because you get away from the people who hurt you. It's not like that.'

'Well, I don't know about you, but,' Nathan pauses, takes a huge breath, 'fuck that shit.' He rolls away from Simon with the last of his energy and brings his knees up to his chest.

'Why don't you try and get some sleep? I mean I know it's early, but...I think you need it.' Nathan casts his mind around and realises it's only been a few hours at most since Fagin was banished. Less than twelve since he got a mind-shattering blowjob from Simon. Time suddenly seems utterly meaningless, because it feels like it's been weeks and years all at the same time, not hours. He realises he is tired. More tired than he can bear. So tired his mind doesn't even know what to do anymore. All his sleeping patterns are screwed up. He hasn't slept properly for so long.

'I'm so tired, Barry.' He says into the mattress. 'I don't know how to sleep. It got like this...in the coffin after a while.'

He is surprised when Simon slides closer to him, and then holds his breath when Simon covers Nathan's arm with his own, when he presses his torso alongside Nathan's back. Simon's hand sneaks under Nathan's forearm, and starts stroking his chest.

'Does this help?' Simon says so quietly that Nathan feels himself shiver. 'It seemed to help the other night.'

'I think so.' Nathan says, feeling Simon's warm hand against his chest, the warm body behind him. Simon's fingers are clever and soothing, and Nathan lets his mind drift again, unsure whether he's feeling safe or not, but fairly certain that the warmth will help him sleep.

After a few minutes he feels himself drifting off with a bizarre sense of gratitude, and a few more tears leak from his eyes as the world turns to darkness, and he surrenders himself into it.

* * *

He wakes up from a nightmare, gasping and already angry. He punches the pillow because the nightmares aren't gone yet. Patience has never been his strong suit. He's always just figured that the sheer force of his impatience would wear anyone else's reserves down, but his unconscious stubbornly refuses to back down.

'The gang want to see you.' Simon says from his work desk, and Nathan looks up groggily from the mattress, and then sits up. His eyes hurt, and he feels filthy, even though he'd only showered that morning.

'Can I use your shower?' Nathan says, and then stands up and stretches hugely.

'Does this mean you'll see everyone?'

'It means I want a shower. You know, turn a couple of taps, water comes out, and then the glorious rubbing of underparts with the addition of soap-as-lubricant?'

Simon shakes his head and Nathan walks off to the shower without saying whether he's willing to see the group or not. The thing is, he doesn't know if he's ready. What if they all expect him to be better now that Fagin-the-ghost is gone? He suspects Kelly will probably expect nothing at all from him and be pretty good about it, because beneath her toughness, he knows how sensitive she can really be. But Alisha and Curtis? That's a whole other matter; he just doesn't know. And yet...he wants normalcy again, he thinks it might be worth it, if he could feel some normalcy again.

He showers slowly, letting the water run over his face for a long time, swallowing gulps of it down. He scrubs the remnants of clammy cold sweat off his body and wishes he could watch all the memories sluice down the drain with the rest of the soap suds. He realises abruptly, as he watches the white froth disappear, that he is using Simon's toiletries, that he is smelling like Simon now. And he's shocked to realise that this doesn't bother him and that, if he casts his mind back, he's never really minded the way that Simon has smelled. He blinks a little at this, as he turns off the taps and shakes his head like a dog; droplets flying everywhere.

'So am I living here now?' He calls, knowing that Simon can hear him perfectly well. Can hear everything, in fact. There's very little privacy in this huge open plan apartment; only the toilet and the closets offer actual doors.

Simon says nothing, and Nathan walks out with a towel wrapped around his waist, dripping water everywhere.

'Because...I don't have to stay if you don't want me to.' He says suddenly, honesty eclipsing the joking, confident remark that he had planned.

'The place is big enough for two.' Simon says, not even looking up from the computer.

'But is it big enough for my _cock_?' Nathan says, grinning.

'As I've seen it, I'd say definitely yes.' Simon doesn't even smile.

'Aw, you're no fun, Barry.'

'I'm sorry,' he says, looking up with a grimace, 'I'm days behind on my orders. Yes, you can live here. Yes, I'd like for you to stay. Yes, this place is big enough for your...for your cock.'

'I'll be the judge of that.' Nathan purrs, and then he slumps. Already he's run out of steam. Conversation is difficult, and the humour feels forced and rote. He doesn't know where the old Nathan has gone, and he doesn't know how to find his way back to himself, or if he even wants to. The old Nathan did get him in this situation in the first place, after all.

Simon's expression moves from amused to worried, and Nathan walks off to find his clothing. He ducks behind the elevator in the middle of the huge room to get changed, wonders when he became a modest person. And a beat later, exhales when he realises exactly when that happened; where all of this came from. No. He's definitely not better yet.

'Will you see the group? I know you're tired. You don't have to. I just thought it might be good to get out, away from here for an hour. You know.'

And Nathan sees a kind of desperation on Simon's face, and the cogs are turning, but he can't figure out why it's there.

'What's wrong with you?' He says. Simon's eyes drift over to a random space in the middle of the room and he stares significantly. Nathan turns and frowns. There's nothing there. And then he realises.

'I'm not the only one who is replaying some of this stuff in his head, am I?' He says, as he looks at the place where he'd stumbled and fallen, where Fagin had leaned over him all taunts and desperate hunger. It's not like him to wonder what other people are thinking, how they might be feeling, so it takes a little while for him to try and put himself in Simon's position. To try and imagine what it must have been like.

'Tell me what he said.' Simon says, before Nathan can find a way of easing further into the subject.

'No one needs to hear that.' Nathan looks away from the spot, and then away from Simon's earnest, convincing expression. 'I'm fucking serious. Technically, he was a ghost, and couldn't hurt me anyway.'

'But he did. I'm not an idiot. I know how much words can hurt people. I was _there_, I've never seen you like that before.' Simon stands up, walks around the table and faces Nathan squarely. Nathan's jaw clenches in annoyance, because these were the kinds of conversations he didn't ever want to have to deal with. He wonders if he could live with someone who needed to know things that no one in their right mind should want to know.

'Jesus Christ is a pole dancer, really? You really need to know? Tell me how that's going to help you, please. Tell me how the shitty, fucked up things he said to _me_, will help _you?_'

Simon opens his mouth like he has an answer, but nothing comes. They're both breathing quickly now, staring at each other, a few metres of distance between them. Nathan folds his arms, and Simon's expression turns inwards, becomes locked behind his grim, closed-in expression.

'You won't tell me anything.' He says, darkly. 'Are you protecting yourself? Or are you protecting him?'

'Okay, okay, I don't want to get all pissed at you because you've _just _given me a place to live and I don't want to fuck it up even though that's kind of my style, but I'm starting to get the impression that living with you is not going to be the living large lifestyle that I thought it would be.'

'It's not going to be the living large lifestyle because you're here because of what he did to you. I don't want to know for my own benefit. How can you think I'd be d-dying to hear the details? But I...as much as I don't want to...I care about you. And maybe talking to someone won't help, maybe it won't, but I push because I think if there's a chance, you need to know there's someone who will listen. I can be that person.'

'Don't you get it? I don't want to talk about it with you. You'd better believe that I don't _ever_ want to talk about it. And my _ever _is a lot longer than yours, because I'm immortal, remember?'

'You love throwing that around,' Simon says, eyes narrowing, 'but how long ago was it that you were telling me you hated it? And yes, maybe I also want to know because I would get something out of it. I don't know. I was there today, Nathan. I saw you. And I hate that I was missing a huge part of what was going on because I don't have your ability, because I couldn't see him. And I know that's not your problem, I'm sorry for making it your problem, I'm a m-mess right now.'

Nathan sits on the edge of Simon's bed and puts his head in his hands. Simon held himself together so well most of the time, that it always takes him aback to see him suddenly vulnerable like this. And he wonders how much Simon and he have in common, that they both had their facades to rely on. Simon and his newfound confidence as some kind of English ninja, and he with his lackadaisical attitude towards life.

'Maybe seeing everyone else will take our mind off things.' Nathan says in the space between his palms.

'I'll organise it.' Simon says, his clear-headed voice back in place, the one that hid the confusion and the darkness all at the same time. As Simon starts calling numbers, Nathan rocks back on the bed until his spine is touching the doona cover, and he stares up at the ceiling again. He keeps waiting for it to get easy, and he keeps getting let down by his expectations.

* * *

They decide to meet at a different pub, since Alisha and Curtis have made it clear that they're not the biggest fans of group meet-ups at their own place of employment; probably because Nathan keeps begging off free drinks. They get a large booth which lends an aura of privacy, and Kelly and Curtis walk off to get everyone's drinks for them. Nathan pretends it's not already awkward. He and Simon have only been able to carry on stilted conversations since their argument, and he knows the dynamic of the group is way off. And he knows that he's responsible, somehow.

When Kelly returns with his cider, he tucks it under his chin and rests his head on it.

'It's so weird, seeing you like this, yeah?' Alisha says. She sips at her vodka mix and looks at Nathan with a cocked head, trying to figure him out.

'I just need time to restyle the old comedy act.' He says, drily, and Curtis chuckles.

'Sure, whatever.'

'Simon says you found an exorcist that worked though, right? My list helped?' Alisha half-smiles with a hint of shyness, something self-effacing, as though she's still always taken aback when something she offers the group actually helps them. Nathan doesn't have the heart to squash that expression with humour, and he doesn't know where his humour's gone anyway.

'An accountant and an exorcist. Just what every haunted house needs at tax time.' He says.

'Weird. But...sort of not surprising considering everything else we've been through.' Alisha says, wry.

'Was she hot?'

'Curtis!' Alisha laughs in reproach, and shoulder bumps him, but Simon steps in and informs them that yes, Amy was hot, and that he's still got her numbers if Curtis wants them. But that maybe she's out of his league. That gets the table laughing, and Nathan watches, bemused, as Simon keeps the conversation flowing deftly from then on. He's never really noticed before how Simon's quiet humour is witty and not even often that appropriate. He knows he's never really given Simon a chance to talk because he's always enjoyed dominating conversations in the past, and he knows that only a few months ago, Simon would probably have been too timid to talk like this. But watching him now, in his element, with his friends, Nathan realises that he's way more invested in their friendship than he previously thought. That maybe he actually _cares_for the person in front of him, in ways that he hadn't fully appreciated a week or two ago. It takes him aback, and he drinks half of his cider at once to take his mind off it.

This time it's less awkward that Nathan isn't the one hogging the spotlight. They've all had a chance to get used to the change, and who knows what Kelly's told them to help them adjust to him. He interjects carefully every now and then, with old and steady one-liners that he knows others will find disgusting and funny, but he has to think hard about the timing, and he can't lose himself in the carefree comedy anymore.

At the end of an evening that helps him to feel almost normal again, Kelly asks him if he'll accompany her outside for a smoke. He follows with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, the taste of fermented apples in his mouth, and Simon's gaze stuck to his back as he exits the pub.

'Nathan...' Kelly says, starting a conversation as she lights her cigarette and drags at it, watching him with something like concern in her eyes.

'I don't want to talk about it.' He says, pre-emptively.

'Neither do I. But, Nathan, I know what I fucking saw and felt when I connected with you about all of this. So I know I don't want to talk about it. And I know you don't either. But...' she pauses, looks down at her feet. Her shoulders hunch in a way that is most unusual for her. When she looks up, her face is drawn. 'I can't sleep properly. It sucks. And this is going to sound really fucking _stupid_, but I don't have anyone else to talk to about it, who will know what I'm talking about. I mean, it's not like I can say to my Mum, 'oh, hi Mum, just dreaming about being raped by my friend's rapist who became a ghost and now might be haunting me,' can I?'

'Yeah,' Nathan says, awkwardly, 'I guess that's not a conversation starter.' It didn't even occur to him that this might be affecting her like this, and he feels like an idiot for not thinking about it. Now he realises that even though Fagin never followed her back to her place like they'd planned, she didn't know that, and she had no way of knowing that until today. She put herself on the line for him, and he feels guilty and worried at the same time.

'I need someone to talk about it, and as much as I like Simon, even trust him...I want to talk to you about it.' She continues.

'But I don't have to talk about it?' Nathan says, hopeful.

'It's just...I only have scraps of it. A roast dinner. A strange painting and the sound of you and some guy laughing about it. That guy. And then pain. A lot of it. Like the worst pain I've ever fucking felt.'

Nathan feels the blood drain out of his face and he's pretty sure he didn't have a great deal there in the first place, considering how cold he is. He doesn't know if he can do this, if he can really listen to someone who has been vicariously damaged by his own damage. He shoves his hands further into his jeans and clenches them, but Kelly doesn't notice, and instead she leans against the cold wall and flicks the finished cigarette away, and lights another one.

'I know it didn't happen to me, but something about his power, and the way he'd twisted your mind up, twisted up the information I got and it felt _real_, Nathan. And telling myself that it didn't happen to me isn't helping. How fucking ridiculous is that? I keep saying to myself, 'suck it up,' and I'm still waking up each night in cold sweats about it. It's stupid.'

'Maybe...it's like it did happen to you. In a way.' Nathan says, hesitantly. He's not used to this, not used to really thinking through other people's problems. 'Jesus, Jesus, maybe it's exactly like that,' his eyes widen and he looks at her, 'you could've told me about this earlier.'

Kelly laughs at him, and he shakes his head. Okay, he thinks, maybe he wouldn't have been able to listen to this earlier. Not properly, anyway.

'Nathan, sometimes I hear what you're thinking, and it's dead messed up. I know I can't just make you think about it differently, just like I can't make myself stop having nightmares about it, but it's fucked up. All of this.'

'Yeah.' Nathan says, because everything she's saying is right, and he doesn't have anything else to add.

'At least what I'm remembering doesn't make me feel like it's my fault.' She adds, and he winces. He opens his mouth to say something but she gives him that determined look which says that she might punch him if he interrupts. 'I'm serious! And if you hurt Simon? I will fuck you up, yeah?'

'Geez, where did that come from? This is, without a doubt, the weirdest heart to heart I've ever had.'

'I'm dead messed up too, okay?' She says, on a low exhale.

'Yeah, yeah, I get that,' Nathan says, softly, because he can see it in the way she's standing, in the way she's looking off to the side, like she's too cool to make eye contact, which is code for 'I'm too worried to make eye contact.' He knows her well enough now to know that things _are_really messed up for both of them. He takes a step closer to her, and then another until he's leaning with his back on the wall next to her and their arms are touching. He can smell tobacco and he wants to take a drag as well, but he prefers the taste of cider instead.

'I'm sorry.' He says, and then laughs, 'not in a 'I think everything's my fault' way, more in a...I'm sorry this fucked up situation tarred you with the same goddamn piece of brush, and that I didn't notice. I wouldn't have wished this on you.' He adds, his voice lacking its usual lilt and falling into a darker, more serious register that the group hardly ever heard.

'I just keep waiting for it to go away, because you know, the ghost wasn't in my house and I wasn't raped. But it doesn't work that way.'

'I just want to go back to the way things were.' He admits, on a whisper. And Kelly looks at him then, with a sad, bittersweet smile.

'Yeah. I know, already. I can hear it, Nathan,' she says, nodding towards his head, 'I can hear it, and I know you want it. But it's not gonna happen. It doesn't work that way.'

Nathan sighs and braces himself when she leans into him a little more and rests her head on his shoulder. Cigarette smoke wreathes around them, and the taste of cider morphs into blood when he accidentally bites his cheek again. Her hair smells like citrus and presses up into his cheek in a way that makes him realise that while it might look soft from a distance, but the product makes it feel hard and clumpy. He has no idea what she can hear from him, what she can't, and he finds that he doesn't really care. She already knows the worst anyway. And he wishes that he could take it back. That he could have known in advance that it would hurt her like this if she read his thoughts, and that it was never worth putting her in this position, and that he'd get Simon to kill Fagin all over again just for giving her those hangdog eyes. He wants to hold her, but he's surprisingly comfortable, and he thinks she is too. In the end, he just imagines doing it instead, and closes his eyes.

'Thanks for talking to me.' She says, and then she shifts against him. 'Ever since I got my power, I've always kind of liked the way you think. It's nothing like the shit you say out loud.'

'Is that right?' He says, on a half-smile.

'Yeah.'

They stay like that, leaning and getting colder, but unwilling to break apart. When the others exit the pub, they move away from each other slowly, and Alisha hooks her arm through Kelly's in that girly camaraderie that Nathan's never understood but has always found kind of hot. They say their goodbyes, and then Nathan and Simon walk back to his apartment. Nathan wants to tell Simon about the conversation he had with Kelly, but then decides to keep it private. There's some things he's not ready to share yet, and then there's things that aren't his place to share; and the strange connection he and Kelly now have is one of them.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: **Reviews are tremendous, motivational love. 3

* * *

Simon and Nathan find a hesitant routine after a couple of weeks. Nathan sleeps in the bed, and Simon sleeps on the floor, and even though they've argued about it twice now, Simon refuses to sleep in the bed as well. Nathan has called this everything from perverted white knight syndrome, to an oxymoronic fear of catching gay germs, but Simon is stoic and insists that Nathan needs to catch up on some serious rest, and that his own air mattress isn't that bad anyway.

Every night, Nathan has multiple nightmares. Some of them he wakes up from quietly, with gasps and contained twitching, and during those times he'll sit up and stare at Simon sleeping soundly, and want to call to him, or wake him or do _something_, before his newfound conscience intervenes and reminds him that Simon needs to catch up on sleep too.

Some of his nightmares are loud and not so contained, he flails and rips at the blankets, and when he wakes Simon is often crouching next to him, or awake in his own bed, or trying to wake him up. Those ones are the worst, because while it was easy in the hotel, it's become difficult to know what to do now. They don't know where they stand with each other. In the hotel they could pretend they were living in some kind of liminal reality where they could do what they wanted. Back in Simon's apartment it's so clearly _Simon's apartment_, and they know that any decision they make here could influence their living arrangement. It's all incredibly strange and uncomfortable. It doesn't help that they haven't had a proper conversation since Simon admitted how messed up he was, since Nathan admitted that he wasn't going to talk about any of it.

He ends up going to his Mum's for a loan, which she generously gives him since he's managed to stop leeching off her for a few months now, and she no longer even gives him that suspicious look that she used to. With it, he buys some new clothing, since he can't stand wearing any of the shit he bought while working for Fagin, with Fagin's money. However, when he returns back to the Community Centre, he finds his stash of saved money under the box where he'd been hiding it, and he can't bring himself to throw it away. He starts a bank account, and feels surprisingly mature about it all. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. If this is who he's turning into; some staid young fellow, he's going to go mental.

During the day, when he isn't sleeping, flashbacks find him at both obvious and non-obvious times. He hides them as best as he can, but some of them are so surprising that he stops in the middle of walking, or bends double while pouring some coffee. The gasps he can turn into coughs, the grunts of phantom sensory pain he can pass off into stretches that make it look like he was just trying to get himself comfortable. He has no idea how much of it Simon actually believes.

His humour is returning, but it's more cutting and caustic than before, and he has to be careful how he uses it. He's hurt Simon twice now, with jokes that were as insulting as they used to be, but with a brittle seriousness behind them that no longer suggest that everything's alright, that he's just palling around. Nathan always tries to apologise, but despite Simon saying it's okay, things are not okay between them.

'Should I just go back to the Community Centre?' Nathan says one day, just as Simon opens the elevator and is about to leave his apartment to get some books out at the library.

Simon turns.

'Why?'

'Because I'm a cynical bastard who is incredibly difficult to live with?' Nathan says, and offers a grin. 'I mean, I was _before_all of this. Now I'm just the square root of cynical bastard.'

'There's no such thing as the square root of cynical bastardry.' Simon says absently, and Nathan's temper blazes quick and acidic inside him.

'You're gonna pick up so many ladies with your mathematical wizardry. Oh wait, I can hear one,' he puts a hand to his ear like he's listening out for something, 'I can hear one now! Except that it was a _joke_, you idiot, and you're never going to pick up anyone with that mathematical...' he stops himself, winces at Simon's expression. He's doing it again.

'Okay, okay,' Nathan raises his hands in defeat, '_this_ is why I think I should be going back to the Community Centre.'

'Kelly told me that you were raped there. And beaten to death. You really think you should be going back?' Nathan cringes backwards at Simon's bluntness, and tries to turn it into a natural movement. That was the other thing Simon had been doing lately, absolutely refusing to dance around the topic whenever it came up. Nathan never knowingly brought it up, but Simon seemed to find a lot of ways to bring the things he said back to what Fagin had done. Every time it happened, he wanted to put his hands over his ears and say 'la la la la la' until the reality went away and Simon became tactful again.

'I'm gonna have the nightmares either way, right?' He says, even though he _is_ scared of going back and living in the Community Centre again, for a lot of reasons. The first being that there's nothing more depressing than squatting in a Community Centre. The second being that he never wants to get into a position where he misses fruit and vegetables and reviles vending machine food ever again. The third being that he was indeed raped there, and beaten to death, and just visiting the place to collect his stash of money had kind of left him in a terrible place only a couple of days ago. The nightmares had really stepped up that evening.

Simon sighed and lowered his laptop in its cover, his rucksack.

'I don't think you should be going back there until you can talk about it. Even just talk _around_ it. I see the way you react when I bring it up. You think I'm not there listening to the nightmares you have each night? The ones that are l-loud enough for me to hear them. You should listen to yourself. Do you want me to tell you the things you say? Do you even remember the things you said to him? And I have to listen to you, at first joking, and then _begging_ him to st-stop, each night. Every day you pretend it n-never happened, and you might be difficult to live with, but I don't think you should be going back to the Community Centre.'

'Maybe you should pick up some earplugs on the way to the library.' Nathan says quietly, tiredly.

'No.'

'No? That's it? Just no?'

'I'm not sending you away because it's hard. It's that simple.' Simon says, like it really is that simple, and then he picks up his laptop and his rucksack again and walks into the elevator. 'I'll see you tonight.' He adds, disappears behind the screen. Soon the elevator rumbles him away to the bottom floor.

Nathan walks around the apartment for a little while after that, thinking. And then, abruptly, he realises that there's one coping mechanism, one _glorious_ coping mechanism he hasn't used since this all started. He picks up his phone and sends a message to Jake, who sends one back immediately, letting him know the time, the place, and how much it'll cost to get high.

Time to go clubbing.

* * *

He likes the shipping container raves because they have better music, and better DJs, and because everyone seems to take the scene more seriously. The drugs are serious, the booze is serious, and for a while he can exist in the thumping bass and the milling and dancing of sweaty bodies. Jake shouts that he hasn't seen Nathan around for ages, and Nathan says he's been busy. Busy with trying to avoid the rave scene because of the way his brother died, because he's been dealing with eliminating a ghost rapist. He doesn't say that part, and instead offers a wicked grin when Jake hands him two tablets of X in exchange for the cash that Nathan hands over.

Nathan swallows both down with a double shot of vodka, and smacks his lips together, ricochets away from the small bar into the crowd, closer to the speakers and the DJ and the thumping beats that are so dirty he's sure that they're vibrating all the knots out of his spine .

The tablets and the vodka hit quickly as he hoped they would. The intense good-naturedness rolls into him first, and then his stresses and worries begin to melt away and as a result he vaguely realises that he's been _super_stressed out lately, and then decides that this was one of the best decisions he's ever made. He doesn't even mind the press of bodies around him, instead he delights in it, gyrating against anyone hot and willing, regardless of gender.

An hour later, he's shelled out for a bottle of water and he's got his phone out, texting one handed to get all the people he loves to come and join him. He has no idea what he's writing, and he knows from past experience that he really should at least attempt to spellcheck, but he sends it out en masse and then puts his phone back in his pocket and enters the throng yet again.

Soon his phone starts vibrating intensely against his pants, but he confuses it for the beat, and ignores it as he raises his arms above his head and starts turning in circles. Soon a small group around him start doing the same, and they all tilt their heads back and look up at the dark, tarnished, corrugated ceiling together.

When the water is gone, and a few more beats roll by, Nathan is aware that his jaw is hurting. It's throbbing from a great distance, and he can ignore it, except that the ache is familiar and keeps reminding him of something. He can't quite put his finger on it. He lets it go. He forces his mouth to hang open a bit, drags in some gulps of air, and starts dancing again. Soon he gets lost in the movement, and he lets the blissful smile come.

Greatest. Night. Ever.

* * *

He's riding the happy plateau, a couple of hours later, and a hot girl bumps into him while he's buying some more water, and then she presses into him deliberately. He turns to look and see who's writhing against him in time to the beat, and his eyes widen when he realises it's Amy. Exorcist extraordinaire.

'You!' He says, and then grins, because with the X coursing through his system, this feels like the best thing that's ever happened to him. Clearly she's off her head too, because she offers the same grin and throws her arms around him. They hug and hug, and Nathan wants the warm bubble and the sweet beats to last forever.

'I got your message! I was nearby, at another club, and I'd heard good things about this place! Having a good time?' She shouts into his ear, and Nathan nods, wondering when he sent a message out, and who he sent it to.

'You're an accountant!' Nathan shouts back, 'you shouldn't be here!'

'And fuck you too!' Amy shouts with a flash of predatory teeth. Her eyes gleam, and she grabs the bottle of water off him and drinks half, before passing it back. They finish it, toss the plastic bottle into the crowd, and she grabs his wrist and drags him deeper into the throng.

He dances frenetically, and she jumps against him and into him. They alternate between losing themselves in the music, and hugging each other, laughing happily. All he remembers, so brightly and clearly, is that she saved him, that she saved his life, and he calls her an angel, over and over again, until she breaks down into giggles and kisses him on the cheek.

'I haven't been able to break loose like this since the storm!' She shouts into his ear, and careens into him clumsily, forcing them both back against the huge speakers. They reel away, and he links his arm with hers and moves them back to the entrance where it's less crowded and overheated.

'It's fucking wild, right?' He acknowledges some time later, like they've been having a conversation all this time, and then twirls her outside. They both bump into people, but everyone else there knew what to expect, were hoping to get that high themselves, and no one was too annoyed. Under the cold night air, they shivered and leaned hard into each other, catching their breath, cooling down before a second round.

His ears ring, but not so much that he can't have a normal conversation. Amy leans into him, and then steps back and leans against the huge shipping container. She rubs a hand over her face.

'I've missed this. And tonight, all of this, is such a fucking coincidence. I was out tonight for a friend's birthday when I got your text. And I thought what the hell, y'know?'

'You're just a woman of good sense.' Nathan says and turns to see a serious, sober Simon walking towards them, eyes wide and worried.

'Barry! Barry! You came! Come dance with us!'

Simon's expression turns even more fearful when he sees Amy.

'Nathan, what are you doing?'

'Don't be like that, lover,' Nathan drawls, and tilts his head to the side. 'Come join us! We're having a good time. You got my text too? I'm amazed anyone could even read it!'

Simon comes right up to Nathan, stares into his pupils; then he turns and stares into Amy's eyes as well, who mutters something like 'buy a lass a drink first, sailor.' He takes them both by the hands and leads them away from the rave. Amy follows willingly. Nathan tugs his hand back and dances away lightly.

'Come on, Barry! You're so much fun when you dance.'

'Nathan!' Simon shouts, his voice angry and worried all at the same time. 'Have you forgotten what happened last time? Our-our powers reversed!' He says, and Nathan stops moving his heel to the beat and cocks his head.

'What now?' Amy says, confused.

'All of our powers reversed. _All_ of them. Amy, do you know what happens when you g-get high? Do your powers reverse?'

'She hasn't gotten high since the storm, man.' Nathan says, absently, feeling like he should be connecting some fairly serious dots right now, and unable to see the final pattern. Simon seems unusually worried. A whole new level of worried.

'We should go.' Simon says, frowning.

'I want to staaaaay,' Amy coos, and then leans in and kisses Simon on the cheek too. 'Stay and dance with us.'

Amy suddenly pauses, and stares blankly over Simon's shoulder. Her eyes widen, and her mouth falls open a little bit. Nathan follows her gaze and can't see anything at all. Simon turns and then turns back.

'Wh-what are you seeing?'

'I got rid of him.' She said, side-stepping around Simon and then walking towards something that only she could see. 'I got rid of you. Only yesterday! Goddamnit, where's that motherfucking rosary?' She looks down at herself, but she's only carrying a tiny clutch, not the larger handbag that she'd kept her rosary in when she exorcised Fagin.

'I got rid of you too!' She shouts too, looking over to her left, and then over to her right. She maintains eye level with empty space, and Nathan thinks he's feeling too good to care about what this means. About what he's done. He can't be coming down _already_.

'I'm going back in!' He announces suddenly, to anyone who will listen, before turning and making very little progress. He looks behind him at Simon, who has attached a hand to his shirt sleeve. 'Come on, Barry, don't be like that. You can come too!'

'Nathan, we need to get out of here. _Please_.'

Nathan turns and listens to the warm buzz inside him instead, loops his arms around Simon's neck, and presses his lips against Simon's, offering a wet and uncoordinated kiss, before nuzzling into the side of his neck.

'Have fun with me. Come dance with me. Don't be that guy, Barry.'

'Nathan,' Simon said, directly into his ear, 'Nathan, listen to me carefully, please. Your power is reversed; you're not immortal. You could die. And Amy's power is reversed, she's seeing people she's exorcised. Nathan, we have to get out of here.'

'Oh! I know!' Amy shouts, apropos of nothing. She gets out her mobile, keys in a number. Nathan pulls far enough away from Simon that they're no longer embracing, but stays close enough that Simon can keep a hand on his arm. The contentment and happiness he'd been feeling was leaking away, drip by drip; it was still nearby, but it no longer suffused his entire being. He still doesn't entirely understand Simon's gravitas, but his brain is taking up a lot of energy trying to, and the happiness feels further away.

'Hey!' Amy bounces happily with the phone against her ear. 'Chris, you nearby? Yeah? You take anything tonight?' She grins. 'I need you, mate. We've flipped our powers tonight! I'm bringing 'em back, and you can get rid of 'em for a change. So I need you here.' She rattles off the address and makes him promise to come as soon as possible. When she hangs up, she looks around with a rueful smile on her face and then smiles at Simon and Nathan.

'My friend, Chris,' she indicates with an easy wave of her hand. 'He can normally summon the dead. A medium, yeah? One of the powers he got. I figured he could help out. He took just as much as I did, anyway.'

And then her eyes widen.

'Oh, fuck, go take him home already! Your one hasn't turned up yet, but he will. They seem to be coming in reverse order and I've been so busy the past two weeks, so I think yours is a few behind. At any rate, at least they're all coming to _me_, so I think you're okay. Just take him home. I'll be fine.'

'Are you sure?' Simon asks. Nathan thinks his voice sounded tinny and distorted, which is weird, because he can hear Amy just fine. He's gotten used to just riding out the weird and often wonderful effects of drugs, but this evening is beginning to sour on him. His hand reaches out and latches spasmodically onto Simon's arm, and then releases it just as quickly. Simon turns to look at him, eyebrows drawing together.

'Please!' Amy insists. 'I'm still feeling really good, I'm not worried at all. Chris is only like five minutes away. Go take your lost boy home.'

'I'll have you know that if I was any of the lost boys, I'd be Peter Pan!' Nathan blurts out, and then chuckles to himself. He's always thought Peter Pan was a great tale; triumphing over Hook, having a band of raucous boys to command. Nathan was always sure that the story would have been vastly improved by the introduction of drugs, alcohol, hovercraft and videogames. And of course wanking and Tinkerbell porn; two more things that Nathan was always sure was missing from the Neverland.

Nathan is pulled by Simon away from the shipping containers, the throbbing beats. He offers Amy a speechless wave, and she gives him the finger, but caps it off with a cheeky smile. He decides that he likes her a great deal and when all of this is over he might want to give her a call and hang out with her, because she seems like his kind of person; and at the very least, he'd have a partner in crime who enjoyed the drugs as much as he did.

Simon doesn't say anything, but he doesn't let go of Nathan's arm, and pulls him towards the car that he borrowed from work.

'I'd forgotten until just now that I have a cure for immortality, if I ever want it.' Nathan says, as Simon opens the passenger door for him. Nathan leans against the car, and Simon straightens and then faces him, pale and drawn.

'Perhaps you have a d-deathwish. It happens a lot in movies, and TV.'

'Barry, I really like you.' Nathan hears himself say, and he smiles goofily, a burst of drug-boosted warmth rushes through him. But he knows beneath the courage in pill form, it's actually true. He really likes Simon. He doesn't really know why, because they don't have a great deal in common, but he thinks they could, and he thinks he wants to find out. The reality of how they came to be living together seems far, far away, even with Amy nearby dealing with the return of exorcised ghosts. He can almost imagine that they came together as two people in innocent circumstances. That their changing relationship did not start in a place of trauma.

Simon's face brightens, just a little bit. In that moment he looks hopeful, wistful, all at once. And then his mouth twists into a wry smile and he gestures into the car.

'Get in, so you can sleep this off and we can deal with the aftermath tomorrow morning.'

Nathan sits, buckles his belt, tries not to think about his brother dying in a car in a place like this. Instead he just stares ahead as Simon gets in, starts the car, drives them away.

The whole drive passes in silence. A couple of times Nathan opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He still feels like he's near the music. His body is buzzing all over, and he's able to resist the urge to grind his teeth together now, so he feels pretty good, pretty pain-free.

When they enter Simon's apartment, when the fluorescent lights come on, Simon turns to Nathan to probably – Nathan assumes – say something very serious. But just like earlier, he leans in, presses his lips against Simon's. He's always shocked by how soft his lips are, even if he can feel a faint scratch of stubble. Simon sometimes seems so angular and brittle, that it amazes him how soft he can be. For a while, he just presses his lips into Simon's from different angles, feeling the yield of skin beneath his. He's breathing through his nose now, and his eyes have closed. Somewhere in his body, a DJ is still playing music, because his pulse points won't settle down.

To regain some sense of balance, some equilibrium, he places his hands on Simon's shoulders. They are broad and strong, much stronger than his own arms. He squeezes, feels something like arousal curl down deep, starts to get hard.

Simon, until now, has been relatively passive. He hasn't stepped back and ended things, but he hasn't really participated either. But when he hears Nathan's shuddery exhale, he lifts his own hands and places one on Nathan's torso, the other on his chest. He opens his mouth, slants his lips, and deepens the kiss before moving his lips away a few seconds later.

'Your heart is beating really fast.' Simon says into the elevator.

'It's normal.' Nathan assures him, and looks down at Simon's hand, flexing his fingers against his sternum. Nathan is feeling everything more intensely, and he swallows hard, smiles at nothing in particular. 'It's really normal. Trust me.'

'Nathan, I-'

'You're always so worried, all the time. If anyone here's at risk for a coronary, my friend, it's you. I'm in the peak of my good health.' He ignores Simon's snort. 'I don't know about you, but, I _do _like you. I know you think it's just...rape-inspired affection, or whatever, is there a name for that? Post-traumatic lust, perhaps? But honestly, it's not just that. I mean, you're a good looking guy. That's always been true. And you've always looked out for me. So why're you always looking at me like I'm some freak who just wants to get off and leave you high and dry? I don't get it.'

Simon's hands haven't moved, and Nathan has been rhythmically squeezing Simon's shoulders without realising. He's used to having deep and meaningfuls when he's nearing the comedown period, but he knows Simon's not. Tough shit, he thinks.

'Is that why you keep trying to get me to talk about it? Like it's gonna be non-messy, if I talk about it? Barry, I don't know about you, but I'm a messy guy. We lead messy lives. This is gonna be a fucked up messy thing. I was truly and splendidly fucked up before I ever met you. You think that was the first guy to ever treat my body like a beat up bicycle that didn't belong to anyone and that wasn't worth anything? Jesus, he's really not. He might have been the worst, but he wasn't the fucking first.'

Simon's eyes have widened, and he's unable to look away from Nathan now, utterly riveted. Nathan shuffles a bit, moves his hands to Simon's collarbone instead.

'I know what kind of person I am and shit. You know what kind of person I am, so why – you little bastard – do you keep thinking I'm going to become someone else all of a sudden? Someone who doesn't want to jump you at inopportune moments? Someone who will do all of this in a safe and structured way that makes sense to you? I'm so not that guy. I like a 'seat of your pants' lifestyle, and while what's been happening lately, with...you know...has been cramping my style, I'm still that guy somewhere.'

'The one who goes to a rave and gets high.' Simon says, 'you didn't even remember that your powers would reverse, did you? I thought you were doing it on purpose.'

'Yeah, you'd better believe it. I'd totally forgotten,' Nathan laughs, and then leans his forehead against Simon's.

'I don't know how things are gonna be in the morning. I don't know how I'm gonna be. I do know that I'm not relationship material. I do know that I fuck up everything I touch. No, shut up for a second, Barry. I'm _serious._ Serious as Thatcher, right now. You can be as White Knight as you want, but it's not gonna stop me from doing stupid shit, and from being a stupid shit. Can't I just like you, without all that other complicated stuff? I mean, come on, you're a beautiful man. Like a shark on steroids.'

Simon laughs. It's a rare sound, an actual laugh, something more than a cynical chuckle or a snort or any one of the other sounds he makes that isn't actually genuine laughter. But now he laughs, and Nathan can't help that it turns him on. He fists his hands into Simon's sweater and pulls him forwards, kisses him again. Fiercely and slowly, the way Simon showed him weeks ago now. Simon responds, this time with no hesitation. One hand moves up to the back of Nathan's head and fists in his curly hair, the other pulls his hips forward so that they're pressing against each other. Nathan already hard, and Simon getting there.

Nathan walks Simon backwards until he's pressed against the wall of the elevator. He moves cold hands under Simon's shirt in frustration, and as soon as he starts feeling the contours of his stomach, Simon moves his mouth to the side, breathing heavily.

'Not now. Not like this.' Simon says. 'Not while you're still high. If this is something you actually want to do, it has to be when you're sober. _Not_ just because I worry, Nathan, but for _me_. I don't...want it to be like this. I'm sorry. I know that makes me b-boring.'

'Not boring.' Nathan murmurs, pressing kisses against Simon's eyebrows, his temples, the bridge of his nose. 'Just a motherfucking cock-tease, you little shit.'

'Just reassess in the morning. Please. Tonight's been scary, for more than one reason, and I think...maybe you'd realise that too if you slept on it.' But Simon can't help himself, and anchors Nathan's face with his hands before kissing him thoroughly, with tongue and everything. Nathan is seeing stars and still feeling the slick imprint of Simon's tongue against his own, when Simon slides sideways out of Nathan's grip, and walks out of the elevator.

'Jesus, Jesus, I'm getting you back for that.' Nathan swears on a shaky breath, and feels a delight that it is only partly drug-fuelled, when Simon laughs again as he walks away.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** Reviews are serious amounts of love. :) Also, wow, new season! I have to admit, despite being sceptical, I'm really liking Rudy. :D Thanks for coming on this journey with me folks. Much appreciated! Please do consider reviewing at the end of this chapter; since there won't be anymore, and it means so much.

* * *

Nathan has always been remarkably lucky in that, no matter how much X he'd taken the night before, he was still always able to sleep. And unlucky in that, no matter how happy he'd felt hours before, he was still having nightmares. He gasped himself awake, swallowed around a sore throat, and burrowed his head beneath the blanket because the light was hurting his eyes. His jaw ached, and he was confused, had it been Fagin? Had he been beaten last night? Fagin had landed more than one solid kick and punch to the jaw in the past. He raises fingers to his face and cradles it, whimpers a little, thinks he's still recovering at the Community Centre before he remembers that he'd gone out clubbing last night.

He squeezes his eyes shut, as the events start coming back in bits and pieces. He remembers dancing, he remembers that a few of his favourite songs were played, and then he remembers Amy. His eyes open. Amy? They were dancing together. And then Simon was there, and it was all serious, and Nathan groans when the whole night really does come tumbling back and snatches of dialogue along with the over-saturated images come bleeding through.

And then he sits up.

'Is he back? Is Fagin back? Do I have to go through it all again?' He says it into the whole apartment, his voice high and breaking.

Simon walks out of the kitchen with some cereal for himself, and hands Nathan some water. He sits on the bed and starts crunching on the sugary flakes.

'No. It's fine. I called her this morning.'

'This morning? What time is it?' Nathan says, but he's distracted. His powers reversed, he could have died last night. This doesn't bother him as much as he thinks it should. And Amy, goodness, he remembers thinking that she'd be a good clubbing partner, and now he knows that if her powers reversed, she'd never be a good clubbing partner. He vaguely considers never going clubbing again, on the off chance that she'd be there.

'How is it fine?' Nathan says, confused.

'She had a friend whose powers also reversed, and he could banish them. She said he arrived and fixed everything and that it's fine. She also said she probably wouldn't go clubbing without him, which is understandable.'

Nathan drinks the whole bottle of water at once. His throat hurt, his jaw was sore, and it all reminded him of other things. Flashbacks intrude and his eyes skate away from Simon's and he stares at the wall.

Simon sighs and places a warm hand on Nathan's shoulder. He can't quite hide his cringe at that, but Simon doesn't withdraw, and eventually Nathan settles. He remembers the end of the evening, Simon holding his head in his hands and kissing him, and his own drunken, high rambling. He closes his eyes and winces even though no one can see his expression. He could be talkative at the best of times, but last night he was practically wearing his heart on his sleeve.

'Jesus.' He says, and laughs. 'What a night.'

Simon withdraws his hand and puts his bowl of cereal down on the floor. The clink of ceramic on concrete is oddly loud in the apartment, and Nathan hears it echoing in his head long after it's finished making any noise. Simon lifts both his legs onto the bed and crosses them, scooting closer to Nathan, and Nathan realises this might be the most forward Simon's been since the hotel. He turns to see the expression on Simon's face, but he can't read it.

'I talked a lot last night, didn't I?'

'You did.' Simon says with a half-smile. 'You did. I liked it. I've been thinking about it all night. I've been thinking that you're right about some things. You're right that this is a messy situation, and maybe I want it to be neater, and more organised, and _safer_, because your intensity frightens me and-'

'This coming from the world's most intense invisible homicidal superhero.' Nathan says in an undertone, and Simon's half-smile broadens into a full one, like it's somehow a compliment.

'I was never going to tell you how I felt about you. I had planned to never tell you. I was going to wait until it went away, and it never did. I...I like you, Nathan. I can't help it. But what do we _do_? You're...damaged. And not just by what happened to you, what _he_ did, not just by that. I don't know how we could ever have a healthy...whatever we have, while you're not healthy.' Nathan can read Simon's expression now, it's earnest and open, appealing and sad all at the same time. Nathan kicks the blanket off him and shifts closer to Simon.

'You've never heard of fuck buddies? Friends with benefits?' He says, and then laughs at himself. 'I don't want anything serious, Barry.'

'You'd still want to...fuck?' Simon says, awkward and efficient all at the same time.

Nathan laughs, loud and long.

'Barry, mate, _have you met me?_'

There's a beat, and Simon laughs as well. They conversation winds up after that and a lot goes unsaid, they end up watching Youtube videos and pornography and DVDs, and Nathan thinks this might be one of the better days he's had in a while. Not fantastic, just...better.

* * *

Despite them both being okay with the friends with benefits situation, nothing happens for the next week. Nathan's nightmares persist, and he still has flashbacks during the day, except that a lot of the time he's alone because Simon is out working and because he's too scared to get another job in case his next boss turns out to be a total douche. He knows he can't continue like this forever, but Simon assures him that he won't. That he can give it a few weeks, a few months, a year, and that's not forever. However long it takes still won't be forever.

Simon starts asking direct questions about Fagin; not about the crimes he committed, but about everything else. The first time it happens, Nathan is taken aback, and then decides to talk about it anyway.

'He used to give me a lot of free food. And it was really _good_.' Nathan hears himself say, and shakes his head as he butters the toast; a constant staple at Simon's apartment, since neither of them are particularly good cooks and they can't afford to eat out all the time. 'I mean, you'd think at a scummy chew'n'spew it'd be the worst, right? A botulism breeding ground. But it was fucking orgasmic, that food. Life changing.'

'I want to say something about 'the way to a man's heart...'' Simon says, with a small smile.

'It was more than that, I think. Like, I suddenly realised, what is someone that talented doing somewhere like that? I mean, if I had a talent like that, I'd be a fucking five star chef in some French restaurant, banging the wait staff and maybe even making my culinary masterpieces on some kind of reality show, banging the crew too. He was just so wasted in that place.'

'You admired him.' Simon says, a statement more than a question, and Nathan winces, and steps away from the toast so that he can maintain a safe distance from Simon; so he can give himself the illusion that this isn't a difficult topic. But Simon knows, he can tell by the way Simon just leaves the silence there, and doesn't ask anything else.

'I also kind of felt a bit sorry for him, you know? At that point I thought maybe he'd been done for burglary or some shit, and he was stuck squandering his talent in a place like that. And he wasn't such a bad guy. So he just seemed like some down on his luck guy making the best of a bad situation. I related to that. I've been that guy all my life.'

The reality of what he's talking about, the outcome of that whole situation washes over him in a wave of nausea, and he folds his arms, tense, and then walks towards the elevator.

'I'm going to clear my head.' He says.

Simon lets him go.

* * *

A few more days pass, and they hang out with the group a couple of times. The group dynamic has clearly changed, but they all seem to be settling into it, and Nathan thinks he might even enjoy not having to come up with increasingly offensive things to say. He also thinks that he might actually enjoy listening to the others talk about their own lives, even if he finds Alisha occasionally tiresome despite how fit she is.

Kelly pulls him aside often, and he listens to her talk about it all. About the aftermath that she is dealing with and can't share with anyone else. He feels guilty every time, but he knows that Kelly isn't talking about it to make him feel guilty, and she says that talking to him helps. It's this repeated insistence on Kelly's behalf that makes him wonder if it really does help. He still doesn't want to talk about it with anyone. But if he were going to talk about it, he thinks Simon might be one of the first candidates, since he has always been a pretty good listener.

The second time they hang out, they go and play snooker. Nathan is terrible at it, but Simon reveals a talent, and he admits that his grandparents had a snooker table and taught him when he was young. Simon ends up scooping a few quid from all their small bets and he can't stop smiling for the rest of the night. He films quite a bit, too, taking out his camera for the first time in a while and getting shots of everyone. His eyes are bright and he seems genuinely happy; Nathan wonders if any of them would have ended up in this social group if it hadn't been for Simon's eagerness to see them become one.

It makes Nathan feel warm inside to watch Simon like that, and he doesn't say anything; just enjoys the novelty of being consistently attracted to the same person.

It isn't until they're halfway home that Nathan realises he was able to crack some jokes, even, and that he felt more like himself than he had in weeks.

But when they pass an old geezer who comments lasciviously on Nathan's looks, and then lecherously throws out a statement of what he'd like to do to Nathan, he finds himself having a panic attack down an alleyway while Simon stands in front of him helplessly. Nathan tries to slow his breathing down, he tries, he knows how stupid it is, and he can't calm down.

He wants to apologise for ruining Simon's night, but once they get home, all he wants to do is sleep. Panic attacks – it turns out – are completely exhausting.

* * *

A few days later, Nathan borrows some of Simon's money and goes out on his own. He wants to get something as a way of saying thank you; thank you for letting me crash at your place, thank you for not being a total wanker, thank you for turning out to be a completely solid friend, thank you for lending me your money with no questions asked. He has no idea what to get. Simon doesn't strike him as someone who wants for inexpensive material goods; and he can't afford something like a new video camera.

He wanders in and out of all kinds of shops, and ends up in a bookstore. He's not a big reader, so he meanders through each aisle, uncertain. He thinks about picking up a book on spy gear, another on famous assassins as a joke, but he thinks Simon won't take that too well.

And then he finds himself in the cookbook section. He stares at all the books, picks one up for beginners and is surprised at how few ingredients are needed to make spaghetti Bolognese. He flicks through some more pages and looks at the price sticker on the back and realises he could probably afford a couple of books.

But he wouldn't be getting them _for _Simon, per se. He's interested in them for himself. He wonders if it's wrong, that he wants to learn to cook and finds it so fascinating. Is this some kind of sick attachment to Fagin? Or is it something else? He tries to think it through, but the sales clerk is watching him like he's a deviant and he decides his window for getting a five finger discount has passed. He purchases two cookbooks for beginners, and can't ignore the way his heart hammers in his chest.

'Just move out of home?' The woman asks, as she processes his order and hands him the receipt.

'Oh, no, no, nothing like that. I've decided that I want my hookers to know how to do more than just blow and fuck, you know? Maybe they could make a pimp a meal sometimes, too. They can't all be prosties forever.'

She mumbles a 'fuck off' under her breath, and he does.

He ends up on a bench, flicking through the books again, trying to figure out what he's done. Why he's done it. And he thinks...maybe one of the reasons he liked Fagin so much, is because he could create memories with his food. So many of his good and bad memories about Fagin focus on specific dishes, and Nathan wants to be able to do something like that. He wants to know how to create memories with food. He often reminisces over having chicken nuggets with Kelly, and how real it had felt after so much vending machine food. And he's clever with his hands – if his wanking is anything to go by – and he doesn't see why he couldn't learn how to cook. Fagin was going to teach him, and Nathan had been genuinely looking forward to it before all the shit had gone down. He had disturbing visions of inviting people over for fantastic food, fantastic fucking. He wanted to _learn._

'Fuck,' he mutters shakily, at these revelations.

In the end, he dog-ears the pages of two recipes, and goes to pick up some fresh ingredients. He's not going to give the books to Simon, but maybe he can show his gratitude in other ways.

* * *

That evening, he orders Simon out of the house and tells him to come back in an hour. He looks at what he has to work with. Simon wasn't one to make anything that complex, and ate a lot of fresh fruit and vegetables to compensate for the fact that everything else came from a tin or a packet. Still, he finds some pretty decent pots and pans, and thinks he can go ahead with his plan. He decides on a stovetop pasta dish and a dark chocolate mousse for dessert, with whipped cream.

He makes the chocolate mousse first, melting the chocolate in the microwave. At first he overheats it, and he throws out the first batch and starts again. The second time around everything comes together quickly, too easily, he's sure that he's screwed up somehow and gotten it wrong, but every taste of the bowl seems creamy and promising. He puts the coffee mugs with chocolate mousse in them to cool in the fridge and then starts on the Bolognese sauce.

When Simon comes back, Nathan has already set the table and the pasta is nearly done. He's flushed and almost shy, but he's feeling confident too. The sauce tastes good. He's tested the pasta so often that he's starting to lose his appetite, but he knows that's nearly good to go. He's found a colander and serving spoons and alongside the worry that things might royally balls up, he's excited.

'It smells good.' Simon says, appreciatively.

'Well, technically, smell doesn't always mean it'll taste great. But it'd better, considering how much those onions made me their tearful, whimpering bitch.'

When they sit down to eat, Nathan watches Simon like a hawk. And then he thinks that this is creepy, so he twirls pasta around his fork instead and still manages to drop sauce on the table and then on his shirt. He swears around the pasta, and then laughs, and then realises that he's actually made something edible. He who screws up just about everything he touches, has made something that tastes like _food_.

'I don't know about you, but I actually think this is kind of alright.' Nathan says, swallowing, and Simon nods, smiles, keeps eating. About halfway through he stops eating long enough to say it's the best meal he's had in a while.

When Nathan brings out the chocolate mousses, Simon's eyes widen and he actually says:

'You're joking.'

'They set and everything! This is ridiculous. Oh, can't forget the cream.' For a few seconds he fakes a quick wank and coming all over the desserts. And then he goes back and gets the cream and Nathan doesn't even care what Simon thinks anymore because he has decided that this is it. This is something he actually wants to do. He wants to learn how to make things that other people enjoy eating. He hadn't realised until his conversation with Simon, how important that was to him. Fagin had showed him something about himself that he hadn't realised he cared about.

And he wants to hate Fagin, he knows he should. But he knows that this is way more complicated than just making Fagin out to be a two-dimensional villain, and he knows that this is why he's finding it so hard. This, and he hates himself.

'This is good, right?' He says, suddenly, and Simon grins and sits back, replete.

'I don't know how you could think it would be anything else.'

'Good. Good. Because, this was kind of a thank you. A sort of, 'cheers for helping me out with that horrible period and letting me live here for free.' A kind of, 'thanks for giving me that wicked blowjob and turning my brain to mush, and you know, for everything.' I mean, it's not much, and I was actually going to get you _something_, but you're kind of hard to buy for and-'

'Nathan,' Simon says, serious and sweet, 'this was perfect.'

Nathan wants to feel weird about it all, but he just can't. This was a good night, he decides. This is one of the best nights he's had in a long time.

* * *

They watch _Tron_ and sit side by side on the couch. Nathan is still buzzed from the night he's had, so halfway through he just crawls over and straddles Simon, and then starts kissing him. He finds it hard to grab fistfuls of the shorter hair, so he settles for just clutching the back of his head and grinding his hips against Simon's, tasting the harsh bitterness of dark chocolate and the beer they'd both been drinking.

Simon doesn't hesitate, doesn't say anything, just anchors Nathan's hips to his own with his hands, and returns the kiss enthusiastically. This is the first time they've ever come close to exploring the friends with benefits part of their friendship since they had their chat, and Nathan can understand why, but he's missed this too. He misses the taste of Simon's mouth when all the food tastes have gone away and he's left with that astringent, fresh, compelling taste that is just Simon. He's missed the way Simon smells. And he's such a fool for Simon's kissing, that he can't even stop the whimper when it comes.

Their hands fumble at each other's jeans so clumsily that they break away, Simon ruefully shaking his head, and work on their own jeans instead. Nathan has just finished pulling down his fly when Simon's hand moves with an incredible amount of confidence under his boxers, twists his hand in the constrained space and grasps him.

Nathan arches, presses his forehead into Simon's shoulder and just rests there for a moment, trying to assimilate the fact that Simon's hand is on his cock, and failing. And then he feels Puckish, and moves his own hands into Simon's trousers, insinuates long fingers around Simon, and realises – with a shock – that this is the first time he's actually felt Simon's cock in his hands, the first time he's actually touched Simon like this. It's heady, leaves him with a sense of power and tenderness all at the same time.

Simon's breathing goes shuddery and he inhales and exhales deeply.

'N-Nathan,' he stutters, and Nathan decides the stutter is even more adorable in situations like this. He lifts his head, presses it against Simon's ear, licks and thrusts his tongue until Simon actually swallows a groan and his head falls backwards.

'Welcome to the mutual appreciation handjob society.' Nathan says on a deep chuckle, moving his hand back and forth, letting his breath coast over Simon's ear. And Nathan is just starting to enjoy having the upper hand when Simon's fingers, which had previously stilled around him, grasp firmly, start moving in that dogged, persistent manner that he uses in his approach to everything else in life.

'Jesus fucking Christ.' Nathan gasps, hoarsely, and Simon chuckles too; a deep, knowing sound that makes Nathan feel like he's already close. Ridiculously close.

'You little bastard,' he manages, and kisses Simon again.

It doesn't take either of them long. Despite Nathan thinking he's the one who's totally going to come early, it's Simon who ends up unravelling first, his breathing becoming shallower and shorter, small sounds choking out of him, Nathan fucking his mouth with his tongue. Nathan's wrist is not even starting to cramp yet, possibly because he has so much experience getting himself off with jeans, but he starts shaking anyway when Simon's spasms lead to Nathan being tugged harder and with more force. Nathan almost says 'take it easy,' but the increased pressure does the trick, and he explodes into his boxers, biting down on his own lower lip and ducking his head, supporting himself with one arm on the couch.

'Jeeeeeesus,' Nathan shivers, removing his hand and moving on the couch until his head is on Simon's lap.

'Now I'm sleepy,' he adds, yawning at the movie.

'So sleep.' Simon says, and Nathan closes his eyes, and is surprised at how quickly he drifts off.

* * *

If things could be perfect, love would cure him; he'd have no more nightmares, he'd be cured. A good relationship with a truly caring person would set him free. But it's not a movie, and a couple of hours later, when Simon is dozing and the movie is over, he thrashes awake, accidentally thumping Simon in the chest and then rolling off the couch.

He hits the concrete with enough force that he's immediately back at the Community Centre. The words 'look man, I'm having a really bad night,' chase themselves through his head over and over again. The utter despair he'd felt ricochets through him, and then he flinches when his body remembers the kidney punch, the feeling of hands all over him.

'Shit shit shit shit shit,' he says, over and over again, and he claws at Fagin, grasping at him over and over again, until the hands disappear and he's lying fetal on the concrete, wondering how he ever managed to earn such a respite.

Except that he's not outside, and there's a coffee table in front of him, and his back is against a couch. Except that Simon kneels awkwardly in front of him, concerned and his jeans still unzipped.

Nathan opens his mouth to say something, but the tears come and he has to close his mouth to stop the sobs from following. He can never tell if the crying happens because what happened was so shitty, or because he actually started to cry at the Community Centre, begging for a break, for Fagin to just let up, because he didn't understand why Fagin had turned on him like that; only that it was his own fault, and he should've known better.

Simon gathers Nathan to him, and Nathan's uncomfortable because the position is awkward, but he can't move, because he doesn't want to be alone right now, because he's tired. He doesn't think he can handle it. He presses his head into denim and his tears soak into Simon's jeans. When Simon feels it, a few seconds later, he starts to rub small circles on his back.

'Nathan, Nathan, I'm sorry,' he says, 'I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?'

But Nathan can't talk, he can't even move. He cries himself out, feeling ridiculously young and vulnerable, and then he turns and looks up at Simon. Nathan has no idea how much time has passed, and Simon watches him, wary and waiting.

'I'm so sick of the nightmares, hey man.' He says, his throat hoarse. 'I bet you are, too; can't be good for your beauty sleep.'

'I don't mind.' Simon says, and brushes his fingers against Nathan's forehead.

'I didn't hurt you did I?' He says, referring to his flailing, and Simon shakes his head.

'No. I mean. You punch like a girl.' He adds as an afterthought, and they share a wry smile; because if they can't have a black sense of humour at a time like this, what else do they have?

* * *

A few more days pass, and two things change.

The first is that Nathan now tries to cook at least once a day. His most spectacular failure was an omelette, which he turned into burnt scrambled eggs; but everything else turns out well.

The second is that Simon starts sleeping in his own bed again. Nathan talks him into it, and the air mattress gets put away, and Nathan falls asleep each night to a warm body beside him. Despite Simon's frequent insomnia attacks, and his inability to fall asleep; once asleep he doesn't toss and turn and is a heavy sleeper. Only the most extreme of Nathan's nightmares wake him up, and they don't happen quite as often anymore.

Nathan finds that when he wakes up frightened and feels Simon beside him, it's easier to fall asleep again. For the first time in ages he starts really catching up on rest. It's amazing on the one hand, because it gives him something aside from nervous, exhausted energy to live off. And on the other hand, it gives him more energy to think about everything that happened. It's an unexpected side effect, but Nathan decides that he has to start thinking about it sooner or later.

* * *

Another week and a half later, Simon is running his index finger through a bowl of cake batter, and licking it in a way that is totally erotic, with no idea that it's totally erotic. Nathan smiles at him, and starts to say something about it, when he remembers doing the same thing at Fagin's cafe. He remembers grabbing a bowl of cake batter, licking it from his fingers, Fagin watching him through lowered lids.

Of course, at the time Nathan had known that Fagin was into him. But he hadn't known that there was any ulterior motive behind it. He'd played along, teased on purpose. A heavy dread washes over him and he swallows hard.

He puts the cake tin down and leans heavily with his back to the bench, and closes his eyes.

'_Why _doesn't this get any easier?' He says.

'Tell me.' Simon says, putting down the bowl of batter immediately.

'Okay, okay,' Nathan says, like Simon has been badgering him to talk about it for hours, instead of just asking once. 'I was just...watching you. With your fingers. It was sexy, yeah? And I used to tease Fagin like that, on purpose, once I knew he was into me. I liked it, you know? People don't usually _like_ me in that way. They think I'm pretty, or they think I'm like a slender waifish model or something, but they don't really...not that it ever really bothered me or anything, it was just a novelty to have that in my life and I tried to enjoy it.'

Simon says nothing, and Nathan pauses to put on an oven mitt and put the cake tin into the pre-heated oven. The distraction is welcome, and he settles the tin and straightens, removing the oven mitt slowly. He knows Simon is still waiting, and he's trying to think of how to continue, but it's not easy.

'I _knew_ something was off with him; he was a total pervert, he liked kids to be way younger, he was like this savant chef in the middle of fucking nowhere. I mean even _you _kind of suspected something was up. I just didn't want to believe, you know? Or I wanted to think that he was just some dirty old man with a drug habit, or something. Just something benign and easy, not...'

He clenches his jaw down hard, his brow furrows. He doesn't know what he feels, in this moment, only that it's big and horrible, and all he wants to do is run away from it. Instead he turns, looks at Simon, shrugs.

'Technically I don't even know how you can stand there and look at me like I didn't cause this.'

'Because you didn't.' Simon says, simply. 'Because you were vulnerable and he was a predator. Because, like you said a few weeks ago, you'd been a target of abuse before and it happens more easily after it's already happened once. I learnt that from others in the facility. He played you, Nathan. You're so...cocky, and used to playing others; but he _used_ you.'

'The stupid thing is,' Nathan says, like Simon hasn't said anything, 'it's that I think if it wasn't for all the fucking _violence_, that whole being beaten to death thing – which, may I add, is a ridiculous fucking drag, especially twice in the same day – if it wasn't for all of that, I probably could've put up with it. I was that desperate. How much of a pathetic little twat does that make me? I mean, he was a fucking monster about it, just so all over the place, all cooing and loving one moment, and so...cruel the next, and I still would've put up with it.'

Nathan looks up when Simon doesn't say anything, and he's shocked to see that Simon's eyes are wet, his face is drawn.

'Hey, Barry.' Nathan says gently. 'Should I not be talking about this?'

'No!' Simon says, emphatic and sure, he winces and then wipes at his eyes, even though no tears have fallen. 'No. Please don't stop.'

'Oh, well, I'd kind of finished.' Nathan says, because that was all the opening up he was okay with anyway. He runs a hand over his face, shakes his head to sort out the mess of curls. 'I didn't want to say anything else. Not...today, anyway. And, Jesus, may I just add...how fucked up am I?'

Simon smiles weakly.

'You're saying that to someone who's been in an insane asylum, who you have happily called mental for at least a year now. So, you're in good company.'

'I hadn't thought of it that way.' Nathan says. He feels scoured out and empty after the conversation. They stand there, uncertain of what to do, and then Simon steps forward and enfolds Nathan in a fierce hug. His arms squeeze him tightly, and he presses his head into Nathan's shoulder. Nathan returns the hug, he sighs heavily, closes his eyes.

They stay like that for a long time.

* * *

Nathan never feels that comfortable talking about his relationship with Fagin, such as it was. It leads to other pathways into his past, and it makes him realise that maybe he's not so much impervious to pain, as really, really good at hiding the truth from himself. But he prefers the idea that he's indestructible over the idea that his past primed him for an abusive relationship with someone, so when conversations start to turn in darker directions, he shuts them down.

Simon seems to know more about him than he does. It's obvious that he's done some research into topics relating to child abuse and trauma, because every now and then he'll quote a statistic or some piece of knowledge that is designed to soothe or enlighten, and Nathan is taken aback when he thinks that Simon cares enough to look into this stuff.

It still shocks him that he's living in Simon's apartment, that Simon hasn't kicked him out yet. It shocks him that Simon gives a shit.

Simon comes home one day from shopping, laden with way more than usual. He stacks some bags on the table and points to them:

'Those are yours.' He says, as he starts to put away the toiletries and other things that he'd purchased. Nathan bounds from the sink to the table and pulls out new recipe books, some more cooking equipment, and even a chef's blowtorch. Nathan actually screeches in excitement when he sees it, and Simon comes over to the table and smiles.

'There are rules for that one. I had to think long and hard about what life might be like with you and a blowtorch.'

Nathan looks at everything on the table and places his hands on his hips.

'My favourite is the blowtorch.' He says.

Simon nods and then shakes his head.

'Yeah. Thought so.' And then he picks up the box himself and looks at it. 'It does look like fun, do we always have to use it for cooking?' He asks, plaintive.

'Hey, you bought it. You can use it for anything you want!'

The gleam in Simon's eyes is totally deviant, and Nathan grins. The first time they use the chef's blowtorch, they start a small fire in the apartment and the smoke alarms go off. There wasn't a crème brulee in sight.

* * *

It is pre-dawn when Nathan slides over to Simon's side of the bed and presses his face against the warm skin of his back and breathes deeply. He does it again, and again, keeping his eyes closed and unable to decide whether he wants Simon to wake up, or stay sleeping. The nightmare recedes quickly, and he doesn't bother chasing after it, he can hardly remember what happened. The content tends to be terribly repetitive, more memories on broken record than anything else, so he doubts he missed anything.

Nathan, overall, is doing better. The group has been beset by a few more dramas, a few more people with powers royally ballsing everything up – as usual – and they have worked together to sort the situation out – as usual. He hasn't died in some time, being more careful about the risks he takes, but he's been able to help Simon out a few times, and he's become less fearful in general. He flinches less, he's found ways to ride out some of the flashbacks. He's cooked dinner for the group twice, and as a result, Curtis has stopped griping about giving him free drinks at the pub.

He takes another deep breath and opens his mouth against Simon's shoulder. Presses his tongue to the smooth skin, and then turns his cheek and revels in this closeness. It's delicious, even post-nightmare.

Simon makes a small, lazy sound in his sleep and then turns to face Nathan. His eyes open and at first he looks happy to see him, and then his lips thin and his brow furrows.

'Nightmare?' He asks, his voice thick with sleep. Nathan nods and then shrugs. Simon smiles again as he realises it wasn't so bad, and Nathan is such a sucker for the expression that he used to belittle, that he leans in to kiss him. He doesn't give a shit about morning breath or any of those things, and he certainly doesn't give a shit about Simon's. He groans when Simon deepens the kiss in that late night, lazy way that commands him when he's just woken up. As uptight as he can be most of the time, in the moments when he's not fully awake, he orients to the world in sensual ways.

Nathan edges closer when Simon's hot palm sketches over his torso and settles heavy on his hip. That lasts for all of a minute before Simon rolls them both so that Nathan is on his back and Simon leans over him. He licks his way from the underside of Nathan's jaw, to his ear. Nathan shivers.

'Is this good?' Simon asks, not to tease, but as a genuine question. Nathan nods, heat rushing to his cock and his own hands exploring Simon's chest and the skin stretched over his hips. They've been moving closer and closer to having sex as the weeks pass, but the times they've gotten really close, Simon has always stopped. Nathan knows it's out of concern for him, but he's starting to get really impatient now.

'Fuck me.' He says, deciding to go the most direct route. Simon hesitates.

'I thought we were going to wait?'

'Yes, yes, of course we are, and until then, how about you fuck me?' He says, pressing a hand to Simon's cock through his tracksuit pants, and not even bothering to suppress the glee he feels as Simon's breath blows out harsh against his face.

'I thought you'd make some false play at being a top.' Simon says, a mischievous spark glowing in his eyes, and Nathan bit at Simon's arm.

'Honestly, Barry, so did I!'

They laugh, and that somehow leads to more kissing, which leads to dry humping as Simon fumbles in his chest of drawers for lubricant and a condom. He drops them when Nathan reaches both of his hands into Simon's trousers and grasps him in one hand, while he uses his other hand to run fingers teasingly along the skin of his inner thigh.

'Nathan, how am I suppose to – fuck – get anything done, when you're distracting me like this?'

'Man up, Barry. I'm just helping.'

'Asshole.' Simon chokes, borrowing from Nathan's extensive crudities, and then bites Nathan's bottom lip before thrusting his tongue deep into Nathan's mouth. Nathan hums, appreciative, and then withdraws his hands as Simon swats him away and starts to take off his own tracksuit pants. A small shiver of fear comes, then, and he pauses for just a second, checking himself before Simon can check for him.

'I'm fine, I'm fine,' he insists, and removes his own boxers, kicking them off the bed. When he looks up to see Simon gazing down at him, he wonders why he was even worried. 'Totally fine.'

In Nathan's head, he expects the sex to happen quickly, but Simon is having none of that. It is another fifteen minutes before Simon even slides a first, well-lubricated finger all the way into him, and he's coming apart at Simon's tenderness and the feeling of being gently, but thoroughly explored. It is so different to the exploding pain of Fagin that Nathan finds it startlingly easy to separate the two. Nathan's eyes widen in shock and arousal, because he didn't expect it to be like this, so different, and so _intimate_. Nathan tries to think of a swear word that accurately encapsulates what he's feeling, and comes up with nothing.

Fifteen minutes later, when Simon inserts the second finger, Nathan is already coming apart and sweating like mad.

'You have,' he gasps, 'iron control over that cock of yours.'

'Upside of being perverted.' Simon mutters, his voice gone deep with lust.

When Simon finally slides into him, on top and facing him, Nathan feels only slightly uncomfortable, and mostly just full and delightful. He decides to take matters into his own hands and shifts his legs further apart, arches upwards and keens in the back of his throat as Simon gets even deeper, rubs over his prostate as the angle changes. He's going to last a whole thirty seconds, he's sure.

'Nathan, I'm not going to last if you-' Simon gasps as Nathan continues to move underneath him.

'Me either, me either, fucking Jesus motherfucking Christ _me either._'

Nathan can't help it, he starts to laugh as he comes, and then a moment later Simon is doing the same, and they giggle like schoolboys into each other's shoulders even as Nathan gasps and arches because the sensations are destroying his ability to think, even as Simon spasms against him. They stay like that until Simon gently withdraws, removes the condom, and they both roll sideways.

'That was so undignified.' Simon says, shaking his head. 'I probably shouldn't expect anything less with us, should I?'

'I don't care. I'm never letting you leave the house again.' Nathan says. 'We're going to do that every day. I'm going to find a way to make _you _immortal, and I swear to god, every single day until the sun fucking supernovas.'

They lay there, sweaty and tangled and fingers entwined.

'Are you okay?' Simon asks, as Nathan presses lazy kisses against his cheek and ear. Nathan nods, and then thinks about the question and decides that it's true. It's actually true. He's not better in the way that he wanted to be months ago, it's not all magically erased, and he's still having enough nightmares and flashbacks that he'd probably qualify for a diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and yet he's doing okay.

He's as surprised as anyone to realise this is actually true. For a while there, he was sure all of this would be what finally broke him.

'Are you?' Nathan asks, and Simon nods.

They both fall asleep and end up sleeping in. When Nathan wakes up, Simon is snuggling into him and he looks up at the ceiling.

He knows he's not done yet. That maybe he'll never be done. If his encounter with Fagin taught him anything, it's that metaphorical and literal invincibility comes at a high price, one that he's not sure he's willing to pay anymore. But he knows he's lucky too. Lucky that the strange, shy kid that he used to pick on was fiercely protective and saved his life in more ways than one, and lucky that in that process, he learnt how to save his own life. And he even discovered that he could care for another person in a way that he literally thought was beyond him. He'd never expected that.

When Simon wakes up, things are less light-hearted. Comfortable, but serious, as Simon traces a pattern on Nathan's chest.

'One day you really might have to talk to someone about it. And...you don't have to, but I'm hoping it will be me.' Simon says, referring to those two nights with Fagin, and Nathan nods.

'You won't like it.'

Simon's hand stretches over Nathan's chest and pulls him into a one-armed hug.

'I'm not expecting to. I killed him because I didn't like it. And if I could do it again, I would.'

Nathan snorts.

'You're such a fucking superhero.'

Simon looks at him and smiles.

'Haven't you figured it out yet? We all are.'

Nathan opens his mouth to disagree, and then just closes his eyes and thinks that maybe Simon's right. Maybe they all are.


End file.
